


Over the Line

by RovingOtter



Category: Joker (2019), Taxi Driver (1976)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Romance, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:54:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 75,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23913397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RovingOtter/pseuds/RovingOtter
Summary: Arthur Fleck kills three men on the subway.  Someone sees him.
Relationships: Travis Bickle/Arthur Fleck
Comments: 116
Kudos: 293





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this takes place in a different timeline than People Like Us (though I'm still planning to do more short fics in that universe). I wanted to play out Arthur and Travis meeting under different circumstances. I'll add more tags as I go.
> 
> Also, here's a Joker/Taxi Driver fanvid thing I made: https://youtu.be/gg15BwmSLzk

Arthur watches the man crawl up the stairs, his movements slow and labored—a snail trying to creep up a pane of glass.

The man is screaming. Raw, shrill screams, like a child or an animal. Blood slicks the cement steps.

Just minutes ago this man was laughing with his friends as they kicked Arthur. Laughing as they beat him bloody on the subway car. Minutes ago this man was in control, on top of everything, looking forward to a bright future.

Now, all of that is gone. His identity, his position in society, his money, everything has been stripped away. There is nothing left but a wounded body. Nothing but fear.

Peel back the surface, Arthur thinks, and it’s there—that naked prey-terror. Even the men who have everything are just animals, made from the same vulnerable skin and nerve and bone as he himself is. They are not invincible, after all. Their status and power means nothing to a bullet.

It’s a revelation. Arthur has lived most of his life in that state of fear, knowing that he can be hurt by anyone at any time. He’s never been the one dealing out the pain.

Arthur marches toward the man, one arm held out stiffly, the .38 clutched in his hand.

He’s already made the decision. Not even a decision, really. He is operating on instinct now. His vision is sharper and clearer, his head buzzing, the blood sizzling through his veins like an electric current. His breathing comes heavy and ragged. 

The man’s movements are slowing, growing weaker as the blood pours out of him. So much. Human beings are just water balloons filled with blood. 

Arthur squeezes the trigger. _Bang, bang._ The man goes limp.

Just like that. He’s dead. Like his two friends. They are all dead.

Arthur stands, dazed and blinking. The world is still. The screaming has stopped. He is alone.

Somewhere in the back of his head he thinks, _I just killed three people._

Beneath the numbness, the strange, dreamlike clarity, beneath the singing of adrenaline, there is a slow-mounting panic.

Arthur has spent his whole life trying to be good. Through the years he kept smiling, even when he was shoved down and beaten and kicked, even when people spat on him and sneered at him and humiliated him. He smiled through it all. Because he was put here to bring joy and laughter to the world. What else is he for?

That image of himself crashes against the sight of his victim’s bloody body like a freight train into a wall of rock.

Murder isn’t good. Murder isn’t _nice._

_They deserved it,_ a voice inside whispers _._

No. No, no, no.

_Isn’t it a relief—letting go? Pushing back?_

A ringing fills his skull, drowning out his thoughts. Arthur puts a hand against the side of his head, breathing hard.

The body remains slumped on the stairs, facedown. An inert thing. The sight of it strikes him as funny, somehow. Moments ago it was a living, talking, thinking human being, and now it is a cut of meat, like a steak in a butcher shop. How _weird._ Of course that’s just how death works, but the man looks so foolish, sprawled there on the steps as though he tripped—

Not _he_ anymore. It.

Arthur did that. He turned a person into a lump of meat. He extinguished the universe inside the other man’s head.

There is something intimate about it. Killing another person. 

Focus, he thinks. 

No one saw. If he escapes now, it will be like this never happened. He just…needs to run. Needs to get away. He needs—

“Hey.”

Arthur’s gaze jerks toward the voice. 

A man. A dark-haired man. Young—younger than himself, anyway—in a brown jacket. He stands about ten feet away, arms at his sides, expression blank.

He saw.

Slowly, as if in a trance, Arthur raises the gun. The man just stares at it. There’s a flicker of _something_ in his expression. But he doesn’t look afraid. “You gonna shoot me?” he asks, almost casually. 

Arthur wonders if there are any bullets left. He tries to remember how many he fired, but the past few minutes are a jumbled mess in his head. He starts to squeeze the trigger—then stops. Goes cold.

What is he doing?

The men on the subway were bad people. They hurt Arthur. They might have hurt that woman, if Arthur’s spasms of frightened laughter didn’t distract them at the right moment. From the way they acted, they were used to hurting people and getting away with it. 

_This_ man—the one standing there, staring at Arthur—is an innocent bystander. Just someone in the wrong place at the wrong time.

If Arthur shoots him now, to save himself, he’s no better than the ones who hurt him.

_‘Fighting back makes you just as bad.’ That sort of thinking—isn’t that how they control you? Keep you tame? What has playing by their rules_ _ever gotten you?_

The dark-haired man just keeps staring at him. His eyes are brown, Arthur notices. A warm, soft brown. Slowly, he raises his hands. Showing he’s unarmed.

Why isn’t he afraid?

“If you’re gonna do it,” the man says, “aim for the head.” He turns one hand and brings two fingers against his temple. “Make it fast. Hell, you’d be doing me a favor.”

Arthur’s lips tremble. His face twitches, contorts.

The man’s gaze holds his. Steady. Calm. “One more body,” he says. “I’m no one. Just a cab driver. Don’t make no difference.”

Arthur’s finger quivers on the trigger. The man is a witness. If Arthur doesn’t kill him now, his own life is over.

“It’s okay,” the man says, almost gently.

_Do it._

But Arthur can’t.

No. Not can’t. He doesn’t want to.

His face twists again, and a laugh bursts out—a pained bray.

He lifts the gun to his own temple.

There’s a flash of alarm in the man’s eyes. “Hey.” He takes a step forward. “You don’t have to do that.”

Arthur licks his lips, tasting the hot copper of blood. His ragged breathing echoes through the silence. 

He’s worried about what will happen to his mother. Who will take care of her? But if Arthur is locked up in prison or Arkham—which seems very likely, now—she’ll be left alone anyway. It doesn’t matter. Either way, life as he knows it will end. He might as well end it on his own terms, and not as an animal in a cage.

“Put the gun down.”

“You saw what I did. I’m a m-m-muh-m—” he can’t seem to spit out the word _murderer._

The man glances at the body and says, “First time?”

Arthur swallows, blinks. The gun is a cold circle against his temple. “Yeah,” he croaks.

“First time is the hardest.” He smiles, just a twitch of his lips.

Who _is_ this man?

“Relax. No one saw you except me. And I’m not telling. Why would I? I dunno who this guy is or why you killed him. I’m just a passing ghost. Don't make no difference to me.”

Arthur’s hand trembles. His sweat-slick finger is pressed against the trigger. “I can’t go back,” he says. “I’m bad now. It’s over.”

“Is that how you think about it? Once you cross that line, that’s it?”

“I guess—I don’t know.” It’s so hard to think, right now.

“You wanna go to prison?”

“No.”

“Then you might want to get away from the body before anyone else sees you. I’d find somewhere to ditch the gun too.” He takes another step closer.

_“Stop!”_

The man freezes.

Arthur tries to force his foggy, paralyzed mind to move. This must be a trick. A trap. The man is trying to get closer to him so he can grab the gun. But…why would he do that? Arthur has the gun to his _own_ head. If the man wanted him dead, he could’ve just let him shoot himself. But he stopped him, instead.

He’s so confused. So tired. His head hurts. 

“What’s your name?” the man asks.

Arthur’s eyes are filling with tears, now. Warm and salty, like blood. The world goes blurry. “Arthur,” he whispers. “My name is Arthur.”

“I’m Travis. I’m gonna take another step closer.” He steps forward, shrinking the distance between them a little more. He’s only a few paces away now. “You can always die later. For now, let’s just walk away. And you can tell me why you killed this guy. If you feel like it.”

Arthur keeps the gun pressed against his temple. He feels safer, with the escape route in place. The air shudders in his throat with each breath. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you care what happens to me? Why do you care why I did it?”

A pause. Travis frowns, looking away. “Curiosity, I guess. You don’t feel like a killer.” He studies Arthur’s face, his bloody nose. “He hurt you?”

A tear slips down Arthur’s cheek. “Yes,” he whispers.

Travis nods, as if this confirms something for him. “You got kicked one too many times and snapped.”

Arthur stares. This man…

_He sees._

“Put down the gun.”

Slowly, he lowers it.

Travis walks up to him. Arthur flinches back, breathing faster, and raises his arms instinctively to shield himself—but Travis just keeps walking past him. Past the corpse, up the stairs. Arthur watches for a few seconds. Then he shoves the gun into his duffel bag and follows Travis. He tries not to look at the body.

“Don’t step in the blood,” Travis says. “You don’t wanna leave shoe-prints.”

“Shouldn’t we be running?” Arthur asks, breathless.

“It’d just attract more attention. Walk fast, but casual. Like you’ve got somewhere to be.”

They reach the top of the stairs and keep walking. Through the station, out into the street.

A laugh bubbles up in Arthur’s throat. He claps a hand over his mouth, stifling it, so it emerges as a sort of half-hiccup, half-burp.

Travis tilts his head, but doesn’t react, otherwise. “You should probably wash that makeup off your face. The blood too.”

Arthur wipes at his still-bleeding nose. “I guess I should…find a bathroom, or something.” 

_Murderer, murderer, murderer,_ chants a sing-song little voice in his head. The images of the dead men keep floating up behind his eyes like grim party balloons. Laughter crawls around in his chest, trying to force its way out of his mouth. He locks his jaws tight.

“My cab’s parked just down the street,” Travis says. “That way."

They walk. People drift past on either side, like shadows. A few glance at them, but no one says anything, no one stops them. Travis approaches a plain yellow cab. Opens the passenger door in the back.

Arthur stares at the seat.

If he has a cab, why was he in the subway tunnel? 

He wonders, for a moment, if getting into the vehicle is a good idea. If he does, he’ll be putting himself at this man’s mercy. And this man strikes him as…not crazy, exactly. At least, not in the usual sense of the word. But definitely not normal. No normal person would react so calmly to witnessing a murder.

Of course, Arthur isn’t normal, either.

He doesn’t know what’s going on or what’s going to happen to him now. But somehow he doesn’t feel afraid. Maybe he’s just shock-numb. 

Travis waits. Motionless, hand on the door. Arthur takes a few steps back, clutching the handle of his duffel bag in both hands…then stops.

_I’m the one with the gun,_ he remembers suddenly. Why is he so afraid?

Travis waits another few seconds. When Arthur doesn’t move, Travis steps forward and takes him by the arm. “Let’s go. Sooner we get away from here, the better.”

Arthur looks down at the hand gripping the crook of his elbow. He could pull free, if he really wanted. But the pressure of fingers on his arm somehow shuts down his hesitation. His head goes blank and his body moves automatically. He gets into the cab.

Arthur sets his duffel bag between his feet and folds his hands in his lap.

Travis closes the door and gets behind the wheel. “Buckle your seatbelt.”

Arthur does.

They start driving. Lights and buildings glide past outside the window. Arthur’s pulse escalates. _I’m the one with the gun,_ he reminds himself.

And then, abruptly, he remembers the sensation of the gun clicking empty when he pulled the trigger that final time. He fired the last bullet into the body of his third victim. He was holding an unloaded gun on Travis, and then on himself. Like an idiot.

A flush climbs up his neck, into his face. “There are no more bullets,” he says.

Travis doesn’t reply.

“You knew that,” Arthur says, “didn’t you?”

“I wasn’t sure.”

Well, he is now. Arthur just told him. He’s in a vehicle with a stranger who just witnessed him committing a murder and he has no weapon, and now Travis is aware of that fact. Arthur rubs his forehead, pushes his fingers through his hair, feeling the ridge of scar tissue running across his scalp. _Stupid,_ he thinks. S _o fucking stupid._

He stares at the back of Travis’s head through the pane of clear plastic separating them. The rush of power he felt when he killed those three men is already fading. Without a loaded gun, Arthur’s not much of a threat to anyone.

A sense of helplessness creeps over him, numbing him. His head feels foggy.

“Are you going to hurt me?” he asks. His own voice sounds strangely casual, to his ears. Like he’s asking Travis his favorite flavor of ice cream.

“No.” Travis glances at him in the rearview mirror. “You want me to stop?” He pulls up to the curb, puts the taxi in park, and waits.

Arthur swallows. He grips the door handle and pulls. The door opens. He starts to unbuckle his seatbelt…then stops.

If he gets out, what then? Go where? Home? All bloodied and bruised, like this? He can’t face his mother right now. He has no idea what he would say to her.

Arthur closes the door.

“Keep driving,” he whispers.

Travis does.

Arthur is exhausted. Sore. Now that the adrenaline high is fading, he can feel his own injuries. His back aches. His face aches. His nose throbs dully, the pain radiating through his skull with each heartbeat. He feels every kick, every punch that landed on him. He doesn’t _think_ he has a concussion, but he’s a little lightheaded. He hasn’t eaten for a while.

He doesn’t want to try to untangle this mess on his own. He just wants to rest here in this taxi, breathing in the musty smell of the faux-leather seats, the tang of smoke and pine-scented air freshener. It’s oddly comforting to have a stranger just step in and take control of the situation. Obeying is something he knows how to do. “Where are we going?” Arthur asks.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

So, Travis doesn’t really have a plan either. He sounds calm, though. Arthur has no reason to trust him, yet somehow, he feels safer with him. He stares out the window. The streetlights and headlights and neon signs go blurry and start to bleed together. “I’m very tired,” he says. “I think I’m going to close my eyes.”

“Okay.”

Arthur closes his eyes. In the darkness, he floats.


	2. Chapter 2

A few years back—soon after Travis first moved to Gotham—he took in a stray cat that kept rustling around in the alley outside his apartment, picking at the garbage. It was an impulse, more than anything.

The cat didn’t have a name. He just called her Cat. She was scrawny, one-eyed and ragged-eared, with matted, wild gray fur that gave her a werewolfy look. The first time he tried to pet her, she bit his hand, latching on with needle-like teeth, and hung on even when he lifted his arm up and shook it. He had to pry her jaws off him with the fingers of his other hand.

Cat was kinda psycho. Sometimes she’d butt her head up against his legs and meow, like she wanted attention. But when he reached down, she would hiss and scratch at his hand. She took some pretty good-sized bits of flesh off of him. And sometimes she would get spooked by a random noise—a car horn honking outside, a voice shouting on the TV—and bolt under the couch, and she wouldn’t come out for hours.

He didn’t mind too much. Loud noises made him jumpy, too. 

Some nights, when he was trying to sleep, Cat would jump into his bed, walk over him and step on his face. Or curl up on top of his chest and purr like a motorcycle with a broken muffler. “Get off me you little fucker,” he would mutter. “I gotta get up in a few hours for work.”

Cat would shift and stretch, digging her claws in.

He got used to her presence. It was sort of nice, just having another living creature around. Feeding her, filling her water bowl and changing her litter was a reason to get up in the morning. He had one or two rough nights when the shadow in his head came close to swallowing him, and he was tempted to just walk outside and step in front of an oncoming truck. But the thought of Cat alone and starving was enough to stop him.

And then after a few months, Cat stopped eating. Just sort of stopped. The few times she tried, she threw up. He brought her to the vet, who examined her, probing her belly—he had to sedate her to do it, because she kept trying to bite him—and recommended putting her down. Said there was nothing much to be done. Her insides were full of tumors.

“You can’t do surgery or somethin’?” Travis asked.

“By the time I took out all the cancer, there wouldn’t be much left. Frankly, I’m surprised this animal is still alive. And even if an operation were feasible, it would be very costly.”

It bugged Travis the way he said that. Like the guy _knew_ , just looking at him, that he couldn't afford it. Like the options on the table would be different if Travis were a rich man.

“I can take care of it today,” the vet said. “Right now, if you want.”

“Put her down, you mean.”

“No sense in dragging out the pain.”

Travis picked up Cat, who was still pretty sedated, and walked out.

“Fucking doctors,” Travis muttered as they drove home. “What do they know?”

He’d find another vet, he decided. Try to get her an operation. As soon as he saved up some money.

He kept putting out food for her, which she barely touched. A few nights later, she crawled up into the bed and curled up on the pillow next to him. When he woke up the next morning she was stiff and cold. He picked her up. She weighed almost nothing. Just fluff and bones.

He wasn’t sure what to do with the body. Throwing it out seemed wrong. He hadn’t had a pet since his old collie, Lady, when he was a kid. When she had to be put down, they’d buried her in the backyard. But he had no yard here. In Gotham, there’s no dirt anywhere, just pavement.

Eventually he wrapped Cat up in a blanket and drove her out past the city limits. Using his hands to scoop out the dirt, he buried her in an empty field next to the highway, and it occurred to him that he was burying the only creature in the city who would have noticed or cared if Travis himself died.

Maybe this would’ve happened regardless of what he did. But he still felt like he failed her.

When he'd left New York, Travis promised himself that he would stay away from booze and pills. He would stay clean. But that night he bought himself a bottle of cheap whiskey and got blind drunk, watching an old black-and-white cowboy movie. He passed out and woke up on the living room floor the next morning, his mouth filled with sand, his brain a nest of hornets.

Old habits die hard.

* * *

Travis felt himself slipping.

Sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep and wasn’t feeling steady enough to work, he parked his cab and went for walks. Or rode around in subways cars. No reason. When he was moving, it was just easier not to think.

He wandered. Past a bar. Past a strip club. Past a dead, bloated rat on the curb. A gray sausage of intestinal track lay beside it, oozing from a rupture in its stomach.

He walked down the stairs into the subway tunnel. He was on autopilot, his body following some impulse, his head empty.

He dry-swallowed another benzo from the bottle in his pocket. And it occurred to him that he could just take the whole bottle. He could lay down here on the cold cement of the subway tunnel and quietly disappear from the world. Maybe that was why his feet carried him down here. Even if someone saw him, they would probably just walk past.

In the past, pills always struck him as kind of a weak way to go. If he ever decided to check out, he’d thought, he would do it quick and clean. With a bullet.

But now, the idea of just fading away didn’t seem so bad. He didn’t have a gun anymore, anyway, and even if he did—it seemed kinda inconsiderate, making a big mess like that. A spray of blood and brains on the wall for some poor asshole to clean up. One last cum-shot.

No…he didn't need that. He'd just go to sleep and stay asleep forever. People died in Gotham all the time. No big deal.

He started to twist open the pill bottle again, then stopped. A big, black rat nosed around by the wall. He watched it with detached interest. The rat found a discarded burger wrapper with a few crumbs and smears of ketchup inside and started licking at it.

Travis tried to imagine being the rat. A few simple instincts—find food, fuck, avoid danger. None of this existential bullshit. No hunger for a greater purpose. No loneliness, no longing for things that could never be.

At least, he was pretty sure rats didn’t feel that stuff. Maybe they did. Maybe behind those beady black eyes was a tortured soul. He zoned out for a few minutes, just watching it.

Then he heard screams and turned around. He watched in a sort of trance as a man in a fancy business suit collapsed on the stairs and a clown walked up and shot him. The whole scene had a dreamlike feel. Travis was pretty high at that point. He wasn’t scared. He was fascinated.

The clown makeup—ghost-white, with blue-framed eyes and a big red smile—gave the killer an eerie sort of beauty. He seemed more than human. A spirit from another realm, a colorful flame blazing in the gray gloom. An angel of death, delivering judgment.

“Hey,” Travis heard himself say.

The clown turned.

_This is it,_ Travis thought. He was going to die at the clown-angel’s hands. And he was okay with that.

And then Travis got a good look at his face. Saw the all-too-human vulnerability there. The fear and confusion.

Not a spirit, he thought. A man.

Loose brown curls tumbled down around that face. Blood glistened beneath his nose. Sweat shone on his throat.

When the man’s gaze collided with his, Travis felt the impact down to the base of his spine, and there was a click in his skull, like something snapping into place. He felt a window open between them. Felt his own gravity shift. He could see the man’s soul shining out of him—opening, unfolding, pulling Travis in like a spinning iridescent tunnel, all rainbow and silver—and at the end, glimmering in the darkness, a candle flame, fragile and brilliant. Beautiful.

It's the eyes, he thought, staring through the fog of his benzo-daze. The eyes always got him.

* * *

Travis adjusts the mirror, watching Arthur.

His eyes are still closed, his body slumped loosely in the seat. Travis can’t tell if he’s asleep or just resting.

The pills are starting to wear off. Travis’s thoughts are clearing. Doubts creep in.

He just picked up a fledgling killer— _Arthur. His name is Arthur_. Not a very bright move. He’s putting himself at risk too. Travis has kept his hands relatively clean ever since he left New York. Now, he’s making himself an accessory to second-degree murder, and for a total stranger. Why?

Doesn’t matter. The choice has been made. He’s not backing out now.

It’s been a long time since Travis’s first kill. But he remembers enough to know that Arthur’s head is probably a mess right now. Killing brings a sense of power—you can get drunk on it, if you’re not careful—but it brings a lot of other things too. Sometimes it takes a while for the full impact of it to really sink in, but when it hits you, it hits hard.

And Arthur…he doesn’t seem like a violent person. His voice, his movements, his mannerisms—everything about him is soft. Hesitant. When he first got into the cab, Travis noticed the way he sat; shoulders drawn in, knees pressed together, hands folded in his lap, like he was trying to make himself as small as possible.

He seems like the sort of guy who normally just minds his own business, tries to quietly slip through the world without attracting too much attention, like an animal learning to blend in with its surroundings to avoid the predators. Definitely not a hardened criminal. When he realized someone had witnessed his crime, he turned the gun on himself. 

He needs guidance. Support. If left to his own devices, he’ll spiral down hard. 

_Yeah, look at you, Travis. You’re a real Good Samaritan. Helping out the poor innocent murderer._

He ignores the mocking voice of his thoughts.

Travis tries to think of a safe place where Arthur can get himself cleaned up. In a public bathroom, he might be seen by strangers, and that would increase his risk of being caught, later. Clowns are memorable. You don’t see them wandering around Gotham every day.

Where can they go, where they won’t be watched?

They stop at a light.

“Hey,” Travis says.

Arthur’s eyes blink open in the rearview mirror.

Travis rubs a hand slowly over the wheel. “How about I take you to my place?”

Arthur’s brow furrows.

“My apartment,” he says. “It’s not far. Figure it’s as good a place as any. You can wash off the blood and paint and get changed. You’ll be less recognizable, then.”

Arthur says nothing. In his lap, his hands tangle and twist together.

“I’m not a serial killer or anything.” Travis holds up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.” Come to think of it, he has killed several people outside the boundaries of the law, so technically that does make him a serial killer. But he’s not a _practicing_ serial killer, so it doesn't exactly feel like a lie. “I realize you have no reason to trust me,” Travis continues. “Me being a stranger and all. But I’m—” he stops. He was about to say _a good guy,_ but that definitely _would_ be a lie. “I just want to help.” The light changes. Travis puts his foot on the gas and eases forward. “So, what’ll it be?”

Still, Arthur says nothing.

“I don’t blame you for being nervous,” Travis says.

Arthur swallows. Travis sees the muscles constrict under the sweat-shiny skin of his throat. “I just killed someone right in front of you. You should be the one who’s scared of _me_.”

Maybe he’s right. Is the gun actually empty? Probably. But there might be bullets in the duffel bag. Arthur could reload it while Travis isn’t looking, if he’s careful. 

Travis is not worried though. He doesn’t fear death. He’s been dead for a long time now. And anyway, he’s pretty sure that Arthur won’t kill him. If Arthur wanted to do that he would have tried it in the subway tunnel, when he still thought the gun was loaded.

“I’ve been where you are, right now,” Travis says.

“You’ve…killed people?”

“I have.”

Arthur pulls his duffel bag into his lap and clutches it. Hugs it. “Were they bad?” he asks in his soft, gentle voice.

“Some of them were. Some I didn’t know well enough to say, one way or the other. But I didn’t do any of it for kicks. There was always a bigger reason. Not a great excuse, maybe. But it’s what I got.”

Arthur stares at him through wide eyes. There’s fear there, but something else, too. Fascination. The tip of his tongue pokes out between his lips, a little pink glistening nub. He licks his upper teeth, tongue probing at the sharp point of his canine. “How many?” Quickly, he adds, “You don’t have to answer that, if—”

“At least six people."

"At least?" Arthur's voice cracks a little on the last word.

The pimps, he thinks. The robber in the convenience store. At least two enemy combatants in the war. Is he missing anyone? Probably not a good sign, that he has to actually think about it. "Some parts of my life are a little blurry now.”

Their eyes meet, again, in the mirror. 

“What are you?” Arthur whispers.

“Whaddaya mean?”

“I mean…are you…a hitman, or...”

"No. Killing for money is something I would never do. I'm an ex-Marine. But that was a long time ago. Now, I’m just a taxi driver. What about you?”

“I was a party clown.”

Well, that explains the makeup. “Was?”

“I was fired today.”

“What for?”

“I did something stupid. The gun, I…brought it with me to work. To a children’s hospital.”

“Huh.”

Arthur lowers his gaze. “No one was supposed to see it. I’m not supposed to have a gun at all, but…I wanted to protect myself. In case someone tried to hurt me again.”

_Again._ So he’s been attacked before. 

“It fell out of my pants while I was dancing,” Arthur says. 

Rookie mistake, Travis thinks. Having the gun loose, instead of secured to his body. He probably doesn’t even own a holster. But then, Arthur has no training, as far as he can tell. _Party clown._ Travis has never met an actual clown before. He has vague memories of going to the circus as a kid, watching them run around with their colorful faces, squirting each other with flowers. It's a living, he guesses.

“I know it’s my own fault,” Arthur says. “I don’t have a license or anything. But—”

“I get it. Gotham’s a dangerous place. And the cops in this city don’t do shit…not unless you’re rich and famous, anyway. You gotta protect yourself.”

For a minute or two, Arthur is silent.

“I—” his voice cracks. “I didn’t _mean_ to do it. I wasn’t planning to…k-kill anyone. If I had just—showed the gun, or just fired a shot into the air, maybe—”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Arthur says. “I can’t take it back, now. I can’t ever go back.”

Travis can’t argue with that. So he says nothing.

* * *

Travis parks the cab in front of his apartment and gets out. Arthur lingers in the back seat, peering out through the window, still clutching his duffel bag like a shield.

He’s all smeared with paint and blood. His eyes stare out from those flower-petal-blue diamonds.

Travis opens the door for him, and Arthur climbs out. He stands, looking around. Most of the apartments in this area are pretty dilapidated. Lots of broken windows, lots of graffiti. It’s a rough area, but then, most areas in Gotham are pretty rough. The divide here between the rich and poor feels even starker than in New York. There are the million-dollar mansions with their gigantic yards surrounded by stone walls, and there are the slums. Not a lot in between.

“I realize it’s kind of a shithole,” Travis says.

“It’s not much different from my neighborhood.” Arthur doesn’t move, though. His gaze flicks from Travis to the building.

Travis walks up to the front door. Normal, casual. He opens it and waits.

After a moment, Arthur approaches and walks through. Travis closes the door.

He gets the sense that, under ordinary circumstances, Arthur would be a lot more reluctant to enter a stranger’s building. He’s clearly been hurt before. He’s not quick to trust.

But he’s in a daze, at the moment. Still reeling from what just happened—from what he did. Still trying to make sense of it, thoughts tumbling around and around in his head like clothes in a washer. He’s very susceptible to being pushed in one direction or the other. An unscrupulous person could take advantage of that.

_Good thing he’s got a standup guy like you to protect him, right, Travis? So fucking noble._

Again, he ignores the mocking voice in his head.

All right, he’s made some mistakes. But that’s in the past. After the whole thing with Iris, he had a lot of time to think, and he came to some difficult realizations about himself. He held up a mirror to his own soul and took a good hard look, and he didn’t like what he saw. He’s sworn off killing. Maybe he’s still damned to hell, but that's up to God. For the rest of his life on Earth, he’s just a regular guy.

Right.

A regular guy would have run fast in the other direction, after seeing a man shoot another man in cold blood. So why was Travis’s first impulse to sympathize with the murderer? Because he is one, himself? 

He starts to walk toward the elevators, but Arthur doesn’t follow. He stands uncertainly in the entrance hall, shoulders drawn in, clutching the handle of his duffel bag in both hands. Shy. Wary.

“You okay?” Travis asks.

“I just…don’t understand.”

“What?”

“Why you’re helping me.”

“Do I need a reason?”

Arthur swallows. “People usually…want something. When they help. People don't usually do nice things for free.”

Well, he's not wrong.

Travis wonders. Why _is_ he doing this? Curiosity? Is that all?

Loneliness, maybe. For a moment, he almost says that. _I don’t have any friends. I was hoping we could be friends._ But that would sound ridiculous. What are they, six-year-olds on a fucking playground?

“I don’t want anything,” he says.

Arthur doesn’t move. They look at each other.

Travis has the sense that if he doesn’t give Arthur _something,_ some kind of reason, Arthur is going to turn around and walk out. He averts his gaze.

“I was about to kill myself,” he says. “In the tunnel.” He pulls the pill bottle out of his jacket pocket and rattles it, then slips it back in. “Then I saw you. Now, I’m sort of glad I didn’t do it. Maybe I feel like I owe you one.”

Arthur stares at him, eyes wide and rapt. There’s a funny look on his face. He’s breathing a little faster.

“I’m on the third floor,” Travis says. He walks toward the elevator.

Arthur follows.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to link it before, so here's a second fanvid I did: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H0OGA4MEFEI

They ride the rickety elevator to the third floor. Arthur stands in one corner, clutching his duffle bag. Travis leans against the wall in the opposite corner, hands in his pockets.

He feels a little weird, now, about telling Arthur he was about to off himself in the tunnel. They barely know each other, after all. They’re practically strangers. But the look on Arthur’s face when he said it…

The elevator stops. They walk down a narrow hall, to a door. Travis opens it, and Arthur steps inside, his movements slow and careful. He looks around.

Travis shifts his weight, self-conscious. He’s not proud of his apartment. It’s cheap—that’s about all that can be said for it. There’s a couch, a TV on a wooden stand, and a lamp. Not much else. A roach skitters away and disappears into a crack in the wall.

"Organ-iz-ized?" Arthur says. He's looking at the poster on the wall.

"Yeah. It's a joke. Not a great one, I'll admit." He's not even sure why he still has it. Sort of reminds him of Betsy, and thinking of her always brings an echo of shame. “Bathroom’s over there,” Travis says, pointing. “Go ahead and get yourself cleaned up. You want coffee?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll make some coffee.”

Arthur steps into the bathroom and closes the door. Travis hears the water in the sink running.

He starts up a pot of coffee, then sits on the couch.

Ten minutes drag by. The water is still running. It shouldn’t take that long for Arthur to wash his face, should it?

He thinks about Arthur holding the .38 to his temple. Even if the gun was probably empty, in that moment, Arthur had forgotten it was empty. He was prepared to pull the trigger. 

There’s a pair of scissors in the bathroom drawer—a few razorblades too. 

Shit.

Travis stands up and knocks on the door. “Arthur? You all right in there?” No response. His gut tightens. “I’m coming in, okay?”

He opens the door.

He’s bracing himself for the sight of Arthur on the floor with blood pooling under him. Instead, he’s just standing in front of the sink, hands on the counter, watching the water run and disappear down the drain. His face has gone blank and slack.

He’s washed off most of his makeup; on the counter is a brown terrycloth hand towel, now smeared with red, white and blue. A few traces of white greasepaint linger on his jaw.

Travis leans over and shuts off the water. “Hey.”

Arthur gives a little twitch and blinks a few times. His head turns slowly toward Travis. 

He’s a little older than Travis first assumed. Late thirties, maybe early forties? Hard to say. His face has a haggard, gaunt look, even more obvious without the paint. The world’s carved lines into him. There’s a harshness, a sharp-edged quality to his features, like a hatchet…but a fragility, too. Cracked glass.

“You okay?” Travis asks.

“Yes. Sorry.” His voice is flat. Disconnected. 

Travis recognizes that flatness. He gets that way sometimes, himself.

“Talk to me.”

“I—don’t know what to say.”

“Name four things in the room.”

Arthur blinks. His brow furrows. But he looks around and obediently responds: “Towel rack. Faucet. Soap. Um. Counter, I guess. Does that count?”

“Sure. It’s just a trick someone taught me, years ago.” A shrink. But he doesn’t like admitting that he saw a shrink after the war. Even if it was just for a little while. “Doesn’t always help, but sometimes the distraction is enough to get you out of your head.”

Arthur bites his lower lip. “My counselor told me something like that once.” He raises one hand and stares at the pale skin of his wrist. “She had me wear a rubber band around my wrist and snap it when I started…thinking about things.”

So, he’s seen a doctor for that stuff, too. “Guess that might work. Sounds like it would hurt, though.”

“I didn’t mind. Pain helps, sometimes. If I’m the one controlling it.” He glances up at Travis, then down again. His ears redden a little. “That happens to you? I mean—”

“The zoning out? Yeah. Not as much as it used to, but…once in a while.”

“It happens to me a lot.”

Travis studies his face in silence for a moment. “You’ve had kind of a rough life, haven’t you?"

Arthur’s lips part. Tremble. He presses them together and nods.

“You don’t use it anymore? The rubber band, I mean.”

“Guys at work noticed me snapping it and made fun of me. I didn’t know how to explain it to them. So I stopped.”

The thought of anyone making fun of Arthur triggers a flash of rage, surprisingly intense. He quickly smothers it. Doesn't do any good, now.

Travis stands there awkwardly in the doorway, not quite sure what to do. Arthur’s gaze remains downcast, fixed on the sink. There’s a smear of blood on the clear plastic faucet-knob. Absently, Travis wipes it away with the towel. He glances down at Arthur’s rumpled white shirt, the circles of sweat staining the cloth under his armpits. “You, uh. You want a clean shirt?”

“Okay.”

Travis retrieves one of his own shirts—yellow and black plaid—from the bedroom closet. He hands the shirt to Arthur, who hesitates, clutching it against his chest with both hands. There’s an almost feminine modesty in the gesture. Like he’s waiting for Travis to do the gentlemanly thing and give him some privacy to change.

Travis takes a few steps back, out of the bathroom, into the hall. He hears the rustle of cloth as Arthur slides his shirt off. He starts to close the door—but in spite of himself, he glances back at Arthur for a half-second.

He’s so damn skinny. His ribcage stands out like a greyhound’s, and his stomach is a cavernous hollow. His body is mottled with bruises, some fresh, some older. How often does this guy get beat up?

Arthur raises his eyes. Catches him looking. Travis quickly averts his gaze again. "Sorry." He shuts the door.

Not a great move, he thinks—hovering there like a vulture while Arthur changed. He feels like a creep.

But why? In the Marines, he was frequently crammed together with a bunch of other guys. There wasn’t a whole lot of privacy. You weren’t supposed to stare, obviously, because that was kinda queer. But seeing another guy with his shirt off wasn’t a big deal.

Travis leans against the wall, rubs the back of his neck.

Arthur emerges from the bathroom, wearing Travis’s shirt. It’s a little loose on him, but otherwise fits okay. “Thank you,” he says.

“No problem.” 

Arthur sits down on the couch. Travis sits on the other end, leaving a meter of space between them, making an effort to be as un-creepy as possible. Though whenever he tries to be extra gentlemanly, he usually ends up acting creepier. Maybe he should just act casual. Say something normal.

But _normal_ has always been a struggle for him. Back in New York, he was never really able to join in the conversations of the other cabbies. Travis doesn’t follow sports or politics very closely so he’s never sure what to talk _about._ He feels like a blank slate of a person.

It’s not like he doesn’t have thoughts. He has plenty of thoughts. Too many. It’s just that everything that goes on in his head is too strange and personal to share. When he tries to relate to other people, he ends up scaring them. He doesn’t want to scare Arthur.

_Come on, Travis_ , he thinks. _Talk._ Arthur just committed murder in front of him. If that’s not an icebreaker, what is?

Arthur fidgets. One leg jiggles. He can’t seem to hold still. He keeps the duffel bag close at his side, between them. He licks his lips, glances at the door. But he doesn’t get up. He pulls a cigarette from his pocket, then stops. “Is it okay if I smoke in here?”

“Go ahead.” 

Arthur strikes a match and lights the cigarette.

He’s polite. Even in his stressed out, disoriented state, he asked permission. Some people wouldn’t have bothered.

He starts to raise it to his lips, then stops. “Are you sure? I can do it on the balcony, if you want. If you’re worried about the smell.”

“Nah. Smell doesn’t bother me.”

“Do you smoke?”

“No, but my mom did. I’m used to it. Kind of reminds me of the house where I grew up.”

“Where was that?”

“Brooklyn.”

“That’s in New York…right?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry. I should know that. It’s just…I’ve always lived in Gotham. I don’t know much about…anywhere else.”

“It’s fine.”

Arthur sucks on the end of the cigarette. His pulse drums rapidly under his jaw. Travis watches the flutter of it, the rise and fall of the artery. “Is the coffee ready?” Arthur asks.

The coffee, he thinks. Almost forgot. “Yeah. How do you take it?”

“Black is fine.”

In the kitchen, Travis fills two cups. As an afterthought, he grabs a bottle of Tylenol from the cabinet and a bag of peas from the freezer. He doesn’t eat peas—they’re one of the most disgusting vegetables, right up there with Brussel sprouts—but he keeps a bag around for headaches and injuries.

He sets the cups down, hands the pills and bag to Arthur. “For the bruises.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Arthur twists off the cap and shakes a couple of pills into his palm. He inspects them for a few seconds, then tosses them into his mouth and dry-swallows them. The easy, practiced way he gulps them down suggests he takes a lot of pills.

Addict? No—probably just takes medication.

Travis sits back down and takes a sip from his own mug, watching over the rim as Arthur holds the bag of frozen peas against his ribs, tucked under his arm. Arthur smokes and sips in silence for a few minutes. It seems to calm him down. His knee stops bouncing. 

“You hungry?” Travis asks. “I don’t have a lot except cereal and instant mac, but—”

“No. Thank you. I don’t think I could keep anything down right now.”

Travis nods.

“Sorry I’m being quiet,” Arthur says. He keeps apologizing for no reason. Seems to be a reflex. 

Travis takes a swig of his coffee. “You wanna tell me what happened with that guy on the subway?”

Arthur freezes. Slowly, still holding the bag of frozen peas against his ribs, he sets the cup down. “There were three of them,” he murmurs.

“What happened to the others?”

“I killed them, too.”

A triple murder. On his first time. Travis is kind of impressed.

“I didn’t mean to,” Arthur says, gaze downcast. “The first two just…happened. And then once they were dead, it felt like I _had_ to kill the last one. I had to finish it. It was already too late to take it back. It all went by so quickly.”

“How did it start?”

Arthur takes another drag on his cigarette. His hand shakes.

“If you’re not ready to talk about it, we can talk about something else. Or I can turn on the TV. Whatever.”

“I want to tell you.”

Travis waits.

Arthur closes his eyes, takes a puff, and exhales slowly. The smoke billows from his mouth. “I was riding the subway home. There were three men. They were bothering a woman. Throwing French fries at her. Saying rude things. She was alone. I was worried that they would…try to hurt her.” The muscles in his neck tighten. “I sat there thinking to myself that I should help. That I should do something. Say something. But my body just wouldn’t move. I was—scared. I knew that those men would hurt _me_ , if I did anything. I still have bruises. From the last time.”

“Yeah. I saw.” He has a feeling last time wasn’t the first time, either.

“Lots of times, other people have hurt me,” Arthur says. “And no one helped. They just walked past. They didn’t even look.” His gaze remains fixed on a point in the air. “I thought that it was because they didn’t care. That they didn’t see me. But I guess I'm no different.” Arthur raises the cigarette to his lips, but doesn't take a puff. Just lets the end of it rest there, against his lower lip. “I felt bad for her. But I couldn’t do anything. I was too weak.”

“You think you should’ve come to her rescue? Been the hero?”

“That would have been the right thing…wouldn’t it?”

“It’s not like it is in the movies. It’s not clean like that. Things go wrong, when you try to get involved. Sometimes, it makes things worse.”

“I wouldn’t know.” He gives Travis a strained smile. “I’ve never been the hero.”

Travis has. But he'd rather not talk about that chapter of his life. “So what happened?”

“They…noticed me. She walked out while they were distracted.”

“Well, there you go. You _did_ help her, even if it was by accident. Probably worked out better for her than if you’d gotten up in their faces and started a big dick-swinging contest.”

He lets out a short breath of laughter. “I guess.” He takes another drag on his cigarette.

“What happened then?”

“Once she was gone…they…”

Travis watches a bead of sweat carve its way down Arthur’s jaw, along the curve of his throat. It clings to his Adam’s apple, quivering there…then continues its journey downward, disappearing under the collar of his shirt. The track shines against his skin.

“They hurt you,” Travis finishes.

He nods. Gulps. “I shot two of them on the train. The third one started to run. So I went after him. And…well, you saw.”

His nose is still bleeding. Just a little. Arthur pulls a wad of tissues from his duffle bag and wipes at it. He sniffles.

“It’s a weird feeling, isn’t it?” Travis asks. “Finding out you can do that with your own hands.”

Arthur’s fingers tighten on the wad of bloodstained tissues. “I feel like…I should regret it. Like I should want to take it back. But I don’t. I’m glad they’re dead. I guess that's pretty horrible. But they were just so...awful.”

"There's plenty of scum in this world."

"Maybe. But maybe I'm not any better."

Travis shrugs. “You seem like a nice guy.”

His ears turn pink again. He’s a blusher, for sure. “I try to be.” He takes another puff on his cigarette. “But I don’t think nice is the same as good. ‘Nice’ is just smiling and being well-behaved, hoping not to be kicked. Hoping that someone will pat you on the head. Or…” He stops.

“Or what?”

He blushes harder. “Nothing.” He turns his head, so his face is visible only in profile.

It’s a weird thing to notice, but Arthur’s got really long eyelashes. It seems like they’d get in the way. Like they would get all tangled up when he blinks, or something. Big eyes, too. It’s hard to say what color they are. Earlier, in the cab, they looked bluish. In the bright lights of the bathroom they were almost green. And there are amber rings around the centers, like fire trapped in glass—

Travis feels a little funny.

_Why are you thinking about his eyes? What does it matter, what color they are?_

“The police are going to come after me,” Arthur says. “Aren’t they?”

“Depends. Anyone see you? Aside from me, I mean.”

“I don’t know. There was the woman. But she walked out before it happened.” 

“If there was no one else, then they’ve got no way to pin it on you. Just wait and see. Watch the news, read the papers. See if they say anything about it.” He takes another sip of his coffee. “You got anyone at home? Anyone who might be waiting up for you?”

A brief pause. “M-my mother.” He says it like he expects Travis to make fun of him.

He guesses it’s a little unusual, a guy Arthur’s age still living with his mom. But it’s better than being alone. Being alone in the world can do bad things to a person’s head.

And he does seem like that sort of guy—a guy who’d be close to his mom. Travis thinks about his own mother, tries to remember the last time he even talked to her. He had a phone conversation with her on Mother’s Day a few years ago. He kept it short, saying as little about himself as possible. Still hiding behind the stupid lie that he was working for the government, that he couldn’t tell them the details, because it was classified. At this point, he's been propping up the lie for so long, he doesn't know how to tell them who he really is.

“You wanna call her?” he asks.

“I don’t know what I would say. I don’t really feel like talking to her right now. I know she’ll have a hundred questions, and I don’t know how I’m going to answer them. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be able to think of something…I don’t know. I know she’ll worry, though.” Arthur fiddles with a button on his shirt. He lowers his gaze, looking suddenly shy, and folds his hands together in his lap.

There’s something feminine about him in general, Travis thinks. Not in a showy, in-your-face way—not like the queens in New York, swinging their hips around in their ass-hugging, shiny leather pants and their rhinestone-spangled shirts. More just a kind of…softness. Something both restrained and yielding.

And there’s something else, something harder to define. Arthur feels… _clean_ , in a particular way that Travis usually associates with nice girls. Girls who dress proper and go to church and respect their parents. Girls who make you want to stand up a little straighter and avoid swearing in front of them. Maybe _clean_ is not the right word, given how haggard and unkempt Arthur is. It’s not a physical thing, exactly. But it’s the closest word he can find.

These are undoubtedly weird thoughts to be having.

“I guess now that I’m cleaned up, there’s no reason for me to stay here,” Arthur says. Still, he doesn’t move. “Maybe I should go.”

“Up to you,” Travis says. “You can walk out that door anytime. I won’t be offended.”

He remains sitting, hands folded. “I feel like I’m imposing.”

“You’re not.”

“I know it’s late, and you might need to get up for work, and—”

“I’m saying you can spend the night here."

Arthur looks up.

“If you want, I mean," he adds quickly. "If you need money to get home, I’ll give you money. Or I’ll drive you myself. But if you’re not ready to go home yet…if you just need somewhere to be, until you figure out what to do…you can be here.”

Arthur stares, his expression unreadable. "Maybe," he murmurs.

Travis feels a thrill that he doesn’t fully understand.

It’s a strange feeling, being curious about another person like this—especially another man. He can’t remember the last time he’s focused so much attention on someone. Betsy, he guesses. And Iris. But that was different.

His gaze lingers on a loose curl clinging to Arthur’s temple. His brain fumbles for something to say, to break the silence. “How you feelin’?” Maybe that’s a dumb question, but it’s all he can think of.

“I don’t know. Confused, I guess. But…it felt good, talking about it with you. Like being in therapy, almost. Except you were paying attention.” He cracks a slight smile.

“Yeah, well. I’m no shrink, but I can listen, anyway.”

“I—” Arthur stops, brow furrowing. “It’s strange, but I feel…lighter, somehow. Free.” He stares straight ahead. “I don’t know what that means. About me.”

“It’s normal to get a high out of killing. It’s an adrenaline thing. Fight or flight reflex. Enjoy it while it lasts. When you come down, you’ll feel all the other stuff.”

“You’re saying I’ll feel worse tomorrow?”

“You might. You’ve been beaten up before, so you know sometimes the bruises hurt worse the next day. It’s like that. And there’s a temptation to just keep doing crazy shit to keep that adrenaline up—like a drug. So you won’t have to feel the crash. Don’t do that. Makes it worse, in the end. When you wake up with that ache, just feel it and get through it.”

Arthur stares at him for a moment, then nods. “Okay.”

Travis is in over his head, here. He knows that. He’s probably the last person qualified to give life advice to anyone else. But what is he supposed to do? It’s not like Arthur can talk to his shrink about this stuff.

“This has been such a weird night,” Arthur says.

“Yeah. Tell me about it.”

“I’m glad, though. That I met you.”

There’s an odd, hollow drop in Travis’s stomach, like the feeling of looking off the edge of a tall building. “Glad I met you, too.”

They look at each other.

Travis feels an impulse to reach out and take his hand. After a moment, he looks away. But his gaze keeps wandering back to the hand resting on the couch at Arthur’s side. The folds of his knuckles, the blunt half-moons of his nails, the nicotine stains on the tips of his fingers.

He wants to touch Arthur. Any part of him. His arm, his knee, his neck. His hand. Just to feel the realness of his body. The space between them feels enormous, and at the same time, so small. So easy to cross. Travis could reach a hand across that invisible line anytime he wants.

But he has the sense that there is some transparent membrane between them, thickening the air. If he reaches out, his fingers would push against it, straining it—and if it rips, what then?

He swallows, mouth dry. Then he scoots a little closer. 

Arthur’s shoulders go rigid. He draws his breath in sharply and holds very still. Travis starts to reach out. Slowly, slowly sliding his hand across the couch toward Arthur’s.

Arthur’s breathing escalates. His face twitches. Contorts. Then a laugh bursts out, so sudden and loud that Travis gives a start. He pulls back.

Arthur claps his hand over his mouth. He wheezes, lowers his hand. A sort of half-hiccup, half-burp escapes him. “I…” His face scrunches up. He laughs again—“Ha! Ha-ha- _haaa!”_ —and doubles over, arms folded over his stomach.

It doesn’t sound like he’s having fun. It sounds like it hurts. “Arthur, what—?”

Arthur fumbles for his bag, unzips it and reaches in. He pulls out a laminated card and hands it to him.

Travis studies the card. _A brain injury?_ Come to think of it, Arthur was laughing earlier too, as they walked away from the body. “Huh,” he says.

“I kn-know it sounds strange.” He giggles. “B-but it’s a real thing.” He sniffs, wipes his nose with one sleeve.

“That must make funerals awkward.”

Arthur gasps out another laugh. Though this one sounds a little more normal. “Oh god.” He wipes his eyes, hiccups again. “You have no idea.” One knee starts to bounce. He clutches it. “It…happens when I’m nervous, sometimes.”

Travis lowers his gaze. Did he make Arthur nervous? Probably. Reaching for his hand like that…

“Sometimes there’s no reason,” Arthur says. “It’s just my stupid brain. I’m always scaring people without meaning to.”

“It’s okay. Just surprised me a little, is all.” Travis averts his gaze. “You, uh...you still wanna..."

"I'll stay."

He nods stiffly. His heart is beating a little too fast. "You can take the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Oh. No. I couldn’t—”

“I may be a little rough around the edges, but I was raised with some basic manners. Guests get the bed.”

But Arthur shakes his head. “I sleep on the couch at home, most of the time. I’ll feel guilty if I take your bed. I’m okay with sleeping out here.”

Travis opens his mouth to protest some more, then stops. He thinks about the bruises on Arthur’s skinny body. The way he flinched when Travis reached toward him.

Maybe Arthur feels safer, being closer to the exit. In the bedroom, he’d be boxed in; he wouldn’t be able to easily slip out, if he got the urge.

“Okay. I’ll get you a blanket.”

Arthur nods. He glances down at his feet. “I didn’t even take my shoes off. I hope I didn’t get your carpet dirty.”

“Doesn’t matter.” The carpet’s grimed with years of dirt, anyway, its original color lost under a dull gray. A little more dirt won’t make a difference.

As Arthur unties his big clown shoes, Travis goes to fetch a blanket and pillow from his bedroom. He hands them to Arthur. Then he pulls his wallet out of his pocket, removes two rumpled twenties and sets them on the coffee table. Arthur’s brow furrows. 

“If you decide you wanna leave, you can take a cab home. If I wake up tomorrow morning and you’re not here, I’ll assume that’s what happened. Oh, uh—there’s some leftover pizza in the fridge. Help yourself to whatever, if you get hungry.”

Arthur grips the blanket tightly in both hands.

“We’ll talk more tomorrow. If you’re still around.” He starts to turn.

“Travis?”

He stops. “Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.” He smiles. It feels stiff and awkward on his face. “Holler if you need anything.” He retreats to his bedroom and shuts the door.

He lays in bed, staring at the ceiling, and thinks about Arthur. His face. The way he moves.

This—what he feels right now—what is it?

_You’re attracted to him, idiot._

Well, yeah, okay. There it is.

He tells himself that it’s just loneliness playing tricks with his head. It’s just been a long time. A very, very long time. He hasn’t even been with a hooker. He thought about it once or twice, when he was desperate for someone to touch—hell, just someone to talk to—but after the whole thing with the pimps…he just couldn’t. And now, after years of isolation, Travis is starved for any kind of human contact. It’s nothing about Arthur in particular.

He tries to tell himself that, but he doesn’t quite buy it.

For most of his life, he’s only looked at women in that way. But there have been a few exceptions. Under the surface, he’s always known about that part of him. He can admit it to himself now, at least. Even if he’s never told another living soul. Even if he’s never actually been with another man.

Most men don’t stir that part of him. Arthur does.

So what, though? It’s not like Travis is planning to do anything about it.

He rolls onto his side and tries not to think.

* * *

Arthur lies awake on the couch, on his side, the blanket pulled up to his neck. His gaze strays to the cash on the coffee table. _Travis._ Even now, Arthur knows so little about him. He still doesn't understand why Travis is helping him, offering him a place to stay. Doesn't know whether to believe the reason he gave, earlier, about feeling like he owed Arthur something. But he doesn't want to go home. Not yet. And there's nowhere else he _can_ go.

He thinks about Travis's hand, reaching for his. Did he imagine that? 

It's too much. Too many things to process. Too many questions.

He _should_ go home. He doubts Penny’s gone to bed. She’s probably worried. He should at least call. But right now, calling feels risky. He’s too raw, too open. If she demands to know where he’s been, he might spill the truth. And he has no idea what will happen if she knows.

He rubs his side. The Tylenol and frozen peas blunted the pain in his ribs, but the pain is still there—a dull hammer, beating in time with his pulse. He closes his eyes.

In a flash he’s back on the subway. One of the men looms over him, grinning, singing, _Where are the clowns? There ought to be…clooooowns._ A hand grasps his wig, pulling it off. A laughing face pushes itself toward his. They’re going to hurt him. He can feel it.

_Not again, please…_

On the couch in Travis’s living room, Arthur pushes his fingers against his forehead, as though he can physically force the thoughts away. But the memories keep replaying. It’s like someone started up a tape inside his head and he can’t find the STOP button. His heart pounds, a dull, sickening thud-thud in his chest. 

_Hold him steady._

_Oh, we got a kicker here!_

Hands grip his arms, holding him immobile as a fist slams into his face and he falls—

_Stay down, freak._

Shoes ramming into his ribs, his sides.

The gun in his hands goes off, and a body hits the wall and slides down…

Arthur clutches his chest, trying to breathe through the pressure there.

_They’re dead now,_ he tells himself _. They’re dead. They can’t hurt you anymore._

He gulps in a breath. The tightness loosens a little. 

The funny thing is, he doesn’t even remember reaching for the gun. Or making the decision to fire it. His body made the decision for him. _Bang-bang_ and it was over. The decision to kill should feel bigger. He crossed that threshold unaware. Just reflex. Does it count if it wasn’t a choice?

The last one, though—that was a choice. He did that. Stalked him and finished him off, like a lion hunting down a wounded antelope.

Energy rushes through his veins, tingling. The surface of his brain prickles with it.

_Killer,_ he thinks. _Murderer. Monster._ Even as part of him shrinks in horror from those words, another part thinks, _Better a monster than a victim_. 

Power. Control. That’s the energy he feels. It feels good.

A part of him still wants to deny that. Wants to hide, to cover his eyes. But he can’t. He killed them, and he enjoyed it. He wants to believe it’s like Travis says—just the adrenaline rush making him giddy—but it’s more. It’s a lifetime of pent-up resentment and anger, a lifetime of feeling small, a lifetime of being stepped on and grabbed and shoved and hurt and being unable to retaliate, of trying to be good. To pull that trigger, to see his attacker’s body go limp, was an almost orgasmic release.

_They deserved it._

He pushes back against that feeling. He’s afraid to accept it. Afraid of everything it implies.

Sometimes, when he can’t sleep, he soothes himself with fantasy. Often, he imagines being on the Murray Franklin show, getting a hug from Murray on the stage. It’s one of those things he would never tell anyone, not even his mother. But it helps. Imagining big, warm arms around him. That feeling of acceptance.

When he tries to imagine that now, though, it doesn’t work. Because he can’t imagine Murray wanting to hug a murderer.

A lump fills his throat. _There it is,_ he thinks. That ache Travis was talking about. It sits inside him, heavy.

Arthur has spent years constructing a flimsy little identity for himself, a sense of purpose and worth, out of the belief that he’s supposed to bring joy and laughter to the world. He’s Carnival. A brightly colored flower in this gray city, spreading cheer—or trying, anyway. Now…

He feels his mind, his identity splintering.

He feels a shift. Feels himself falling into himself, sliding down a dark tunnel in his own head, the light receding. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for the kudos and comments. :) I appreciate all of them and am grateful for any feedback, even if I've gotten lax about responding again, heh. Sorry this chapter took a while. It's a bit longer than the others, and I kind of struggled with it. But it's probably as close as it's gonna get, so without further ado...

A few weeks after the big shootout with the pimps in New York—after he got out of the hospital and returned to his normal life, or some version of it—Travis lost interest in jerking off. More like he just couldn’t. Like his dick was on strike, or something.

When he tried to immerse himself in the fantasy of a beautiful blonde’s head between his legs—the fantasy of being wanted, being touched, of soft lips in a hot wet O around his cock—thoughts of death kept intruding, like a knife cutting into his brain.

He saw flashes of memory from the shootout, from the war. Lifeless, crumpled bodies like discarded toys. He saw slaughterhouses and dead animals hanging from meat-hooks. He saw mass graves and blood-spattered ferns and bits of brain matter on the grass. He went soft in his own hand.

He still went to porno theaters when he couldn’t sleep, but the ritual felt hollow. He’d sit there staring blankly as the people on the screen moaned and thrusted and pumped away like unthinking machines. Whatever magic once made it feel real (or real enough to get him going, at least) had disappeared.

In growing desperation, he started venturing into theaters playing other stuff, the kind of stuff he’d stayed away from before. Stuff with two guys, or more than two. Stuff with ropes and nipple clamps and shiny leather outfits and whips. 

Still, he felt nothing.

Come to think of it, food had lost a lot of its appeal too. He kept eating, but mostly out of habit. Everything tasted bland. Muted.

When he went to the diner, the other cabbies kept talking about the shootout. Kept calling him “the hero.” They would greet him like that, when he came in the door—“Hey, hey, it’s the hero!”

“How’s it goin’, hero?”

He knew they weren’t trying to mock him. But it felt like they were.

They kept smirking and asking sly, roundabout questions about how much pussy he was getting since his face started showing up in the papers. It made his skin crawl. Even if he’d _had_ a sex life, he wasn’t too keen on the idea of discussing it with the other guys. It was none of their business.

He wondered what they’d say if he told them the truth: _Actually I can barely get it up since that whole thing with the pimps. I start thinking about dead bodies. Kinda kills the mood, you know?_

The irony is that, since he got out of the hospital, a few girls—pretty ones, too—actually _did_ come onto him. In a surprisingly direct, almost aggressive way. One (not a hooker, he was pretty sure) got in the front seat and tried to put her hand on his cock after just a few minutes of talking—which was mostly her asking questions and him replying in one or two-word answers. When she reached for him, he grabbed her wrist and shoved it away. She turned red, called him a faggot, and got out of the cab in a big huff.

Whatever.

Before, his problem was that no one would give him a chance. Now…

Even if he found himself naked with the most beautiful woman in the world, he wasn’t sure he would be able to do anything. He didn’t even care anymore, really.

More and more, it seemed like the problem with his dick was just a symptom of something greater. The world was a wash of gray. Life was a series of performed motions. He’d been through times like this before—everything flat, everything empty. Wasn’t the problem that he’d _always_ sort of felt that way? He had never been able to experience the sort of ordinary joy that other people did. But this was even worse than usual.

He’d felt better back when he was in the midst of his mental breakdown, planning his assassination of Palantine. Back then, everything in the world felt purposeful. Life was a grand battle between good and evil. A story, in which he played a crucial part.

Of course, he now recognized that mindset as delusional. Those kind of feelings were just another drug.

Now he was living in reality, and reality was empty. The world was just objects. Coffee cups. Clocks. Engines.

Travis was conscious of himself as an object, too. Sometimes, at night, he stared at his own hand, at the lines on his palm, and thought about the muscles and bones beneath his skin. _I’m meat,_ he thought. Everyone was. Everyone knew that. But people didn’t think about it much. They didn’t accept it.

He kept replaying the shootout in his head, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when each pimp died. It has always seemed to him that death should be more dramatic, somehow. That there should be some sense of the soul leaving the body. But no. People just sort of stopped moving. Like a machine that had been turned off. 

It became harder and harder to keep living like normal. 

The other guys just kept ribbing him, acting like he must be having the time of his life, basking in all this fame and praise, and he didn’t know how to tell them that he was miserable. That he felt even worse than before. That living out his fantasy of being _someone_ just made him more aware of how empty it all was. He didn’t think they’d understand or believe him.

* * *

He went out again with Betsy, just once, before he moved. She called him out of the blue one night (she still had his number, apparently) and asked him if he wanted to grab lunch sometime. Actually asked _him._

Suddenly everyone was interested in him.

He remembers sitting across from her in the diner, watching the way her hair glistened in the sunlight from the window.

She was still beautiful. It was just a fact. He waited to feel some twinge of his old, obsessive love for her. Maybe there was a faint ghost of it, a quiet ache—but it felt like putting flowers on a grave. That part of him was dead.

“So Palantine lost,” he said. He didn’t feel much about that, one way or the other. 

“It’s a shame,” she said, spearing a piece of green melon with her fork. “But not a surprise, really. It’s always an uphill battle—progress, I mean. People are scared of change. It’s a lot of work. And risk. It’s hard to convince them, sometimes, that it’s worth it.”

“You think he would have changed things?”

“I think he would have done more than the other guy.”

Travis sorta doubted this—most politicians seemed the same to him—but who knows?

He poked his fork at a fragment of pie crust on his plate. “Sorry,” he told her. “About the things I said before.”

She hesitated, a cup of coffee in one slim, elegant hand. “You mean about how I was going to die in a hell, and how I was just like the rest of them?” She sipped her coffee. “By ‘them’ I assume you meant women.”

“More like people in general. But yeah. That.”

“You were pretty awful to me.”

“I know.” He could offer excuses. He could say that he’d been confused and hurting. That he’d been having a mental breakdown, at the time. But those things didn’t really matter, now. “Anyway, sorry.”

She nodded, once, and glanced down. “You did a good thing. Saving that girl.”

He wanted to feel something, at those words. He didn’t. “Iris.”

“Hmm?”

“Her name is Iris.”

Betsy glanced up, meeting his gaze. There was something new in her eyes. Something soft. Inviting.

Suddenly he was no longer an unstable weirdo, but someone to look up to. A hero. That word seemed to affect people like some kind of mind-altering drug. 

Except it wasn’t _him_ they wanted _._ It wasn’t real. She wanted the guy in the papers, not the depressed loser who took her to a seedy porn theater. Definitely not the asshole who barged into her office after that, shouting and ranting like a loony. But the loser asshole was closer to Travis’s actual self. 

“It wasn’t exactly like they made it sound,” Travis said. “That whole thing.”

“Then what was it?”

“I just lost my head.”

“Even so. You saved her, didn’t you? The result is what counts.”

“I dunno.”

“I believe in actions,” she said. “Everyone’s full of good intentions. Everyone wants to feel like they’re a good person, because they have good thoughts. But there are so few people who really _do_ anything. It always seemed to me that most people sort of drift through their lives in a trance, never taking risks, never changing anything. That’s why I got into politics, you know.” She stirred some of that powdery fake creamer into her coffee. “I hate passivity. I respect people who take action.”

That was how Travis felt for a long time, too. Now, he wasn’t sure.

Slowly, he set his fork down. “When I blacked out, in that place,” he said, “I didn’t expect to wake up. When I did, I was almost disappointed. I feel like, in some way, I was not supposed to survive that night. The fact that I’m here now is a mistake.”

Betsy’s gaze searched his face. Her forehead furrowed, brows knitting together. “Travis…are you all right?”

He debated, for a few seconds, how to answer that question. “Not really. I don’t think I’ve been all right for a long time. But that’s not your problem. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

She bit her lower lip. It was strange, seeing her do something so…girlish. She always seemed so wise and mysterious to him, before. “What if I wanted it to be my problem?”

She was offering to keep seeing him. Keep talking to him. It was what he’d craved for so long. His angel was reaching out a hand to pull him out of the fires of hell.

“I could use a friend,” she said. “Like you said before. And I never felt right about…how things ended between us.” Her gaze dropped. “I _did_ feel something, that first time we came here.” She tucked a lock of hair behind one ear. “I don’t want to jump into anything, but maybe we could just…see how things go. Keep it casual.”

He was amazed she was willing to give him another chance, even as a friend, after the way he acted.

For a moment he thought about it. Just having someone to talk to might help.

But they didn’t actually have much in common. She was very political. Despite his fixation on Palantine, Travis had never followed politics much; the world she inhabited didn’t interest him. Continuing to see her, even on a casual basis, felt…deceptive, somehow. If he told her what was going on in his head, how he felt, she wouldn’t know what to do about it. He didn’t want to burden anyone else with his darkness.

He felt a wall between them, now. A sense of distance. He didn’t dislike her—she seemed to him like a decent person, if a little uptight. He just…wasn’t interested. She was gray and muffled, like everything else in his world.

“I appreciate the offer. But the truth is that I’m planning to move out of New York pretty soon.”

He hadn’t really made the decision, until that moment—though he’d thought about it. But as soon as he said it out loud, he knew it was right. He needed a change. He couldn’t stay here.

“Really?” she asked. “Where?”

“Gotham.”

She gaped at him. Actually gaped. “ _Gotham?_ Why?”

“I know. It has a bit of a reputation.” The crime was even worse, there. The weather was shittier. The city was always in the red, its infrastructure crumbling and rotting. Gotham was like a dying thing that no one was quite brave enough to put out of its misery. “Maybe that’s why. I dunno.”

“You want to help fix the city’s problems?” She sounded skeptical. “Are you planning to get into politics, after all?”

“No. Nothing like that. I don’t know how to explain. I just feel drawn there, I guess.”

She smiled a little. Shook her head. “You really _are_ an enigma, Travis.”

“Not sure what that means, but thanks.”

“A riddle. A mystery.”

That was one way of putting it. He didn’t even understand himself, most days.

“Well,” she said. “Maybe we can keep in touch?”

“Sure.” He didn’t expect that they would.

* * *

He left New York a week later.

Gotham really _was_ worse in almost every way, which made him feel somehow a little better. And it was a relief not to have to deal with all the hero bullshit. But overall, nothing much changed. He worked. Exercised. Tried to keep his mind occupied. He stayed clean. In more ways than one.

For a brief while, when he was living with Cat, he felt like he might be getting better. The world was still gray, but a slightly warmer shade of gray.

That didn’t last. Soon enough it was back—the overwhelming sense of emptiness. Decay. Like a shadow lurking outside his door.

He thought about that shadow when he drank coffee. When he drove passengers around. He couldn’t escape it. He began to lose his sense of control over his own movements, shifting into a sort of dream-state where he observed himself from outside, his actions uncoupled from his consciousness. When he walked, when he lifted his arm, he felt his body doing these things without the permission of his mind. He was only an observer. Travis Bickle was not a person; he was a series of isolated moments divided by glass, like tissue preserved in microscope slides. The moments did not connect. They formed nothing. There was only the void.

If there was freedom in existing this way, he thought, it was only the freedom of oblivion. He was already dead: his body just hadn’t realized it yet. He had dreams of being in a boat on a fog-covered ocean, drifting, drifting. Alone. No shore in sight.

He felt himself fragmenting, the pieces of him growing soggy and dissolving like bread in coffee. One day blurring into the next into the next.

And then there was a change.

* * *

Travis can’t sleep. He lays in bed, face half-buried against the pillow, restlessness shifting under his skin. He thinks about Arthur, just down the hall, on the couch.

His mind keeps going back to that moment in the subway tunnel when he first glimpsed Arthur in his makeup. The radiance of him. A flame.

He’s been seeing in shades of gray for years, and now suddenly—color. Arthur awakened him.

They’ve only just met. They’re very nearly strangers. And yet he and Arthur have both seen a dark and primal side of each other tonight. Travis watched as Arthur gunned down a man in desperate self-preservation, after being pushed to the edge. And Travis himself was in a drugged haze, on the edge of suicide after slogging through years of mind-numbing depression.

Normally, it’s difficult for Travis to talk to anyone or tell others anything about himself. Ordinary human interaction feels so awkward, so stilted. Like a performance. But he could talk to Arthur. It felt natural, as though they’d known each other for months or years. That moment of raw vulnerability, that window between them, stripped away the pretenses and left them naked to each other.

He remembers experiencing something similar in ‘Nam, with Danny—the only real friend he made there. They were in that hellhole together, facing death every day. Losing comrades. Getting their own hands dirty with the blood of enemies. The presence of death creates a bond. There were moments of almost telepathic connection, a sense of thoughts and emotions flowing between them. Shared pain, shared humanity. A state of heightened awareness where any touch, any glance, came to mean so much more.

He felt that, too, when Arthur looked at him. Even stronger, maybe.

Travis’s body feels uncomfortably warm. He kicks off the covers and closes his eyes, hovering somewhere between sleep and waking, dream-images floating behind his eyelids.

Arthur marching up to the man on the stairs, the gun flashing as it goes off…Arthur’s face smeared with blood and makeup, his hair disheveled and sweat-damp, his eyes blazing like the eyes of an avenging angel…his soft, shuddering breaths echoing through the silence after he fired…the look on his face when he turned toward Travis…

There’s a pulse of heat in his groin. A tightening. An ache.

_Am I…?_

Travis’s eyes snap open. An erection tents the front of his boxers.

He shuts his eyes again and rubs at the eyelids with his fingers.

Risen from the grave, he thinks. Hallelujah. Also, what the fuck? 

It’s a relief to know that the thing still works—that whatever was wrong with him for so long, it’s not permanent. But why now? Why Arthur? Why _that_ moment?

His dick throbs. His heart thumps in rhythm with it. It’s been a long time since he’s felt this aware of his own body. This _alive_. It doesn’t make much sense; for so long, thoughts of death were what kept him from finding release, and now…

His hand strays down. Then he yanks it back, like he’s touched boiling water.

No. He’s not going to jerk off with Arthur sleeping right down the hall, on the couch.

_It’s not like he’s gonna know. He’s probably already asleep._

That’s not the point, though. It’s a sleazy thing to do. 

_You won’t be able to sleep if you don’t._

Is he gonna lay here awake for hours, trying to ignore the first real hard-on he’s had in ages?

“Shit,” he mutters. He palms his face. Grabs his cock. The way it feels now, he can probably bring himself off in a couple of minutes. He just has to be quiet. Careful.

He tries conjuring up a vague mental image of a woman, a blend of several porn stars. Round, firm tits, not too big. Yellow hair, falling in soft waves…big blue eyes ( _green,_ he thinks, _they’re green_ ) gazing up at him with warmth and a kind of tender hunger…parted pink lips, moist and full, a husky voice… _you’re so hard…_ her head dipping between his legs…

The image shifts. He sees Arthur there. His lips, outlined in that vivid red smile against the white paint. That tangle of brown hair. Big eyes framed by blue diamonds. That soft voice asking, _Do you want me, Travis?_

His muscles tense. No. Bad enough that he’s jerking off with Arthur so close by. He’s absolutely not going to do it while thinking about Arthur. That would feel like...a betrayal, almost. A violation.

He tries to change up the fantasy. Thinks about soft breasts pressing against his shoulder, slender hands running over his body, caressing him, wrapping around his dick…

His mind keeps drifting back to Arthur. The sight of him lifting a cigarette. The self-conscious way he smooths his shirt and folds his hands in his lap. The way his face creases up when he smiles, the fine lines radiating from the corners of his eyes—

Travis’s hand moves up and down his cock, stroking himself through his boxers. His breathing quickens.

_No, damn it. Think about someone else. Anyone._

The nicotine stains on the tips of Arthur’s fingers, the thinness of his wrists, lightly sprinkled with dark hairs…

Travis pumps harder, faster, flushed and panting.

That light…that candle-flame glow he glimpsed inside Arthur when he was high, flickering bright in the darkness…

A soft, muffled groan escapes Travis’s throat.

In a flash, he sees Arthur beneath him, mouth open, eyes rolling back.

He grabs his own mind and yanks it away from that image. Fantasizing about actual sex with him, mentally penetrating him, feels like crossing a line.

He knows he’s just fooling himself, trying to pretend that setting up these invisible guardrails in his head makes some kind of difference. He’s already crossed that line.

Still, he holds back. He doesn’t need to think about _doing_ things. Doesn’t even need to imagine him naked. Just the memory of Arthur’s eyes, his face, his hands. That’s all he needs. He focuses on that.

The way his shirt sleeve hangs down around his wrist…a brown curl clinging to his temple…those eyes… _fuck…_ blue diamonds…candle flame…the _crack_ of the gun firing, his breathing, the stillness of him in that moment, lips parted, smeared in blood and paint, raw and unhinged, cracking open, his soul hanging in the balance, on that razor’s edge between darkness and light…fuck, _fuck…_

He’s close. Right on the edge.

_This is wrong._

_Come on, please. I need this._

Just a little more.

Arthur. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, _Arthur._

A flash—Travis sees him in the tunnel again, stalking up to the man on the stairs, ablaze with light and purpose. The gun goes off, _crack._ Pressure, release. _  
_

He cums.

Travis lays in bed, on sweat-damp sheets, gasping and wide-eyed, his spent cock in one hand, the inside of his boxers sticky and wet. He puts his other hand over his eyes.

Jesus.

The full realization sinks in. He just jerked off to the memory of Arthur killing someone.

Not the act of murder itself, he thinks. Just…Arthur. In that moment.

Still pretty fucked up. He wonders how he’s going to look Arthur in the eye tomorrow.

And yet. Deep in his chest, his gut, something he thought was dead is coming to life again. Despite the shame, despite the confusion, something sings like a bird freed from a wire cage. A shaft of sunlight breaks through the clouds. 

It’s still there, he thinks. Whatever it is that lets him feel these things. It’s there.

He places his hand over his own chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart. The life.

Death is what gives life meaning. The impermanence. The fragility. The awareness of flesh and bone and nerve. An ache fills his chest, and warmth pours over his heart like melted wax. _Love._

It’s insane—he knows that. He can’t love someone he just met a few hours ago. He no longer believes in that kind of fated soulmate, Romeo and Juliet bullshit. But he feels it anyway. It’s not romantic, exactly. He loves Arthur as a person, as a being capable of experiencing joy and pain and fear and longing, capable of bleeding, of touch. Everyone is like that—everyone has those experiences. But sometimes it takes the most extreme circumstances to make one person _feel_ another’s humanity, on a deep level. A bond of blood—but not in a familial way. 

He feels a sense of wonder unfolding inside him. I am bound, he thinks. He is anchored within the world, within his own body and mind once more. It strikes him as a miracle. To be a person able to touch another person…to be so privileged as to have the chance, however brief, to live and die upon the Earth, and to see and feel, and to make coffee for someone, to offer comfort, to say _I understand_ , to have a mind capable of contact with another mind…

He wants to fall to his knees and thank God for everything. Even the pain. Even the empty gray years of feeling like a meat-puppet. Maybe it was all necessary in some way. Maybe he had to be unraveled and remade in order to become his deepest self. Maybe now, at last, he can truly live.

His vision blurs a little. He swipes at his eyes and realizes that he’s crying.

Been a long time since that’s happened, too. Years.

He closes his eyes, dizzy.

_“Ha-ha-ha-haaaa!”_

Travis gives a start, eyes snapping open. _Arthur_.

“Ha-ha-ha.Haa…aagh…” The laugh breaks off in a choked hiccup. He can hear it easily, even from the other room.

It sounds painful.

_Did he hear…?_

No. Travis was careful to keep it quiet. It’s just Arthur’s condition. He remembers the card. _Frequent, uncontrollable laughter that doesn’t match what you feel._

Slowly, he sits up. Centering himself. He feels the dust of his mind, the particles of his being, settling within him.

He thinks about what it must be like, randomly laughing like that, unable to stop. Getting funny looks from people wherever he goes. Has it always been that way for Arthur? Ever since he was a kid? School must have been hell.

He changes his boxers. His throat feels a little tight. His hands are shaking.

_“Haaa-ha-ha-haaaaa!”_ The laughter breaks off into a moan.

He wonders if Arthur’s been holding it in. Trying not to wake Travis up. Does it hurt, holding it in? Is it like trying not to blink or sneeze? Like feeling an itch, fighting the urge to scratch it?

Travis sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck. Maybe he should check on Arthur.

The warm rush of spiritual bliss is fading, leaving him staring at the facts of his own actions. And the facts are...uncomfortable.

After climaxing to the thought of Arthur firing a bullet into a shrieking yuppie, it’s a little hard to just walk up to him and ask if he’s okay. Like this is all normal. And maybe Arthur wants to be alone, to sort through his own feelings. He should probably just—

There’s a crash. Glass shattering. More laughter, raw and frantic. Then another sound: _smack, smack, smack._ Flesh against flesh. Like someone being hit. 

Travis stands up and throws on a shirt and jeans.

He quickly compartmentalizes his own tangled emotions. He has plenty of experience pushing aside his feelings when action is needed. There is a situation. Arthur needs help.

He walks out. The living room is empty.

He hears a gasped breath from the kitchen, and another smack. Arthur muttering: “Fucking useless, _stupid_ — _”_

He finds Arthur kneeling on the kitchen floor with his head bowed, shirtless. Glass shards glitter on the tiles around him; a few shards are smeared with blood. Blood spatters the tiles, too. Arthur has balled one hand into a fist and is smacking it into his own forehead, over and over, with enough force to knock his head back. Literally beating himself up.

“Hey,” Travis says.

Arthur doesn’t seem to hear him. He slams his fist into his head again, hard. _Smack._

Travis approaches from behind, taking care not to step on the glass. He reaches out and grips Arthur’s wrist. Arthur’s body goes rigid. “Easy,” Travis says quietly. “Take it easy.”

Arthur’s ragged breathing echoes through the silence. A small, strained whimper escapes his throat.

“It’s okay. Breathe.”

Arthur’s head is bowed, hair hanging down in a curtain around his face. His thin body trembles. He draws in a slow, heavy breath, his ribcage expanding. “I…” He looks around. Looks down at the shards. “I dropped a glass.”

“It’s fine.”

“I tried to pick up the pieces, but I cut myself. I didn’t want to get blood on your shirt, so I took it off. And I—I just— _ha-ha-haaa!_ ” He gasps. Croaks, clutching his throat. A tear drips from his face, down to the tiles.

“Don’t worry about it.” Travis holds on a few seconds longer, then releases him. For an instant the shapes of his fingers are visible against Arthur’s wrist, the skin whitened from the pressure. Travis watches the marks fade. 

Arthur sits in a crumpled heap on the floor, staring at the shards. He starts to giggle again. Presses his hand to his mouth.

He’s in a bad state. Travis knows he’s in over his head. He has some experience dealing with physical wounds. How to clean them out, how to stop the bleeding. Dealing with a wounded mind is harder. He can't see the shape or location of the injury. He might end up making things worse, if he's careless. But he can't do nothing.

He tries to remember if he had this kind of breakdown after his first kill. He doesn’t think he did.

Slowly, he lowers himself into a couch. “You said you cut yourself?” Travis keeps his voice low and steady. “Where?”

Arthur lifts up his right hand. There’s a deep slice on the ball of his thumb. Blood slides in rivulets down his wrist and drips to the floor. His giggles have tapered off into silence, but his breathing is labored.

“Let’s get that cleaned out. I’ve got some rubbing alcohol and stuff in the bathroom.”

Arthur doesn’t move. He rubs at his wrist, smearing the blood. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“It’s just a broken glass.”

“I’m acting crazy. I’m scaring you.”

“I don’t scare easy.” He has an impulse to reach out, to rest a hand on Arthur’s skinny shoulder. He stops himself.

Instead, he stands, circles around to Arthur’s front, and offers a hand.

Arthur stares at it for a moment. He sniffles and takes Travis’s hand in his uninjured one. Travis helps him up and guides him into the bathroom. Arthur walks in small, shuffling steps, head bowed.

Travis opens the cabinet under the bathroom sink and gets a first aid kit. “Run it under some water,” he says. “Here.” He turns the faucet on. Arthur holds his hand under the stream, flinching a little as the water hits the cut. “Too hot?”

He shakes his head.

Travis watches the pink-tinged water run down the drain.

Arthur seemed okay earlier. What triggered this?

Maybe that’s a stupid question. 

Once the cut’s bled out a little, Travis shuts off the water and dabs alcohol onto Arthur’s thumb with a bit of gauze. Arthur just stands there and lets him. Keeps standing there motionless, silent, as Travis wraps a bandage around the injury. He seems pretty out of it.

“Arthur.”

He doesn’t reply. Soft, shuddering breaths echo through the bathroom.

“Arthur. Look at me.”

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut. The muscles in his throat constrict. “I’m awful,” he whispers.

“No. You’re not.”

“I didn't want this to happen. I’ll clean up the glass. I promise.”

“Don’t worry about the glass. Just take it easy.” Again, he wants to reach out. To rest a hand against Arthur’s back. Again, he stops himself.

In spite of everything, they _are_ almost strangers. He feels that sense of distance creeping back in. That caution.

Arthur stands, leaning against the counter.

“You were hitting yourself pretty hard,” Travis says. “You dizzy?”

“No.”

“Your head hurt?”

“Yes. But it always does, after I…do something like that.”

Arthur’s voice echoes in his head: _Pain helps, sometimes. If I’m the one controlling it._

Travis looks at that thin, bent back, mottled with bruises. The whipcord muscles. “You need anything?” he asks awkwardly.

Arthur shakes his head. “I let my thoughts get out of control. That’s all.” He rubs at his face. “I know that’s not much of an explanation.”

“You don’t have to explain anything.”

Arthur tucks his bandaged thumb into his palm and squeezes it.

“If you want some privacy…”

“Don’t leave me,” he blurts out. He shuts his eyes again, whispers, “Please. I can’t…be alone. In my head. Not now.”

Travis hesitates. Slowly—very slowly—he reaches out. Rests a hand on his back. Arthur flinches a little, but doesn’t pull away. His heart is pounding. Travis can feel it. “It’s all right,” he murmurs.

For a minute or two, they just stand there, Travis’s hand resting on his skin. Arthur’s heartbeat slows. It’s still faster than normal, but it doesn’t feel like it’s trying to bust through his ribs. At last, Travis pulls back. His mouth is dry. He feels strangely helpless.

“You, uh. You wanna come sit on the couch?”

A small nod.

“Hang on. Let me get your shirt.” He’s pretty sure he saw it on the kitchen floor.

He goes to retrieve it. When he steps into the living room, Arthur’s sitting on the couch, hands tightly interlaced in his lap. Travis hands him the shirt, and he slips into it, moving slowly. Painfully.

Travis sits on the couch, leaving a few feet of space between them, like before. 

Arthur’s mouth opens. Closes again.

"Go ahead," Travis says.

“This might sound strange, but...after you did it the first time—k-killed someone, I mean—did you ever…feel like you were becoming someone else?”

“I dunno. Not really.” He pauses. “You feel that way?”

Arthur stares into space. “I don’t know how to describe it. It was like…something shifting. Like I was falling.” He slides his fingers into his hair, gripping.

“It wasn’t really like that for me. It was more like I shut down. Just felt…empty.”

“I _wish_ I could shut down.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, either.”

Arthur stares down at his bony, pale feet, curling his toes inward. He seems a little calmer now. His breathing has steadied. Travis feels an urge to check his heart-rate again, but resists. “How you feelin’?”

“Embarrassed," he muttered. "I can’t imagine what you must think of me.”

“I think you’ve been through hell.” He rubs a thumb absently over his own knuckles. “I sorta want to hit myself sometimes, too.”

A little hitching breath escapes Arthur. His lips tremble. “What you told me, before…about why you were in that tunnel…was that true?”

“You mean, that I went down there to die? Yeah. It’s true.”

“Why did you want to die?”

Travis shifts his weight. “It’s a little hard to explain.”

“You don’t have to answer. It’s just…you’ve been listening to me this whole night. Watching me fall apart. But you’re going through something awful too, and I haven’t even asked you about it. I feel like I’m being self-absorbed.”

“You aren’t. Trust me.” He keeps rubbing his own knuckles. He stares at the curve of Arthur’s back, the loose folds of the shirt falling around him, the tangle of hair hanging over his neck.

He owes Arthur an answer. Or at least an attempt at one.

“I’ve been fucked up for a long time,” he says. “It’s like…there’s this ball of yarn. All tangled in knots. I try to untangle it. Try to follow one piece down to the center, to find out what’s there. But there’s nothing there. No center. No big reason at the middle of it all. It all just loops around and over and in on itself. I mean…I been through some things. I was in the war. But that wasn’t the start of it. It’s me. It’s the world. It’s everything.”

Arthur looks at him. For the first time since Travis came out of the bedroom and found him on the floor, their gazes connect.

There’s compassion there, in his face. Understanding. More than that—a strange, quiet yearning. Travis has the sense that those red, pain-filled eyes can see straight through his head. Right to the back.

_He knows. He knows everything._

But he can’t, of course. 

"I'm sorry, Travis," Arthur says softly. But this time, it's not an apology.

Arthur’s wounded eyes are pleading with him. _Hold me._

God, he wants to. He wants it with a hunger and intensity that overwhelms him. He wants to feel Arthur’s skinny arms twining around his waist. Wants to hold Arthur’s head to his shoulder, stroke his hair.

He thinks, again, about what he did in the bedroom.

“You, uh.” Travis clears his throat. “You need anything else?”

Arthur lowers his gaze and shakes his head. Closing off. "I'm fine."

There was an opening, Travis thinks. For a moment there. But now it’s passed.

Or maybe it was all in his imagination.

“Okay.” Travis hesitates a moment longer. Still, Arthur doesn’t look up. “I’m gonna go clean the floor.”

“Let me do it.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Please.” There’s an urgency in his whispered voice. “I feel bad about breaking your glass.”

Travis wants to insist again that it’s just a glass, that it means nothing. But if it makes Arthur feel better… “All right. There’s a broom and dustpan in the hall closet, for whenever. No rush. And be careful. Don’t cut yourself again.”

Arthur nods. Another tear slips out of his eye. He quickly wipes it away with the back of his hand. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Arthur. You’re having a rough night. That’s all.”

He blinks rapidly, eyes shiny and wet, and forces a smile. “I’m okay now. I promise. Sorry I woke you.”

“I was awake.” He starts to say more, then stops.

Travis doesn’t know what else to do. He gives Arthur an awkward pat on the shoulder, lingers there another moment. Then he retreats back to the bedroom and sits on the edge of the bed. Thinking.

Gray dawn light creeps through the blinds.

* * *

When he ventures out of the bedroom again and sees the empty couch, his heart sinks.

There’s a piece of notebook paper on the coffee table. Travis picks it up. The note is written in a clumsy, almost childlike scrawl:

_Thank you for helping me and talking to me. I cleaned up your kichen. I wanted to do something for you. I hope its ok. I feel so embaressed about the way I acted and about falling apart like that. I have a lot of mental problems but I know that is not an excus. Im glad I met you but pleas forget about me._

Travis’s fingers tighten on the paper. 

He thinks about Arthur’s tear-reddened eyes. 

You poor man, he thinks. You poor, sweet, decent man.

Arthur isn’t a natural born killer. Not like Travis. Life just pushed him too hard.

_But you liked watching him do it, didn’t you? You liked watching him get his hands dirty. Watching his fall. Watching him become like you._

Maybe it made him feel less alone. 

Travis goes into the kitchen. Not only did Arthur clean up the glass, but the stack of crusty dishes he left in the sink has been washed, the plates and bowls placed carefully in the drying rack, and the counters have been wiped down. He touches the surface, where the tracks of a wet rag are still visible.

He has no way of finding Arthur. No phone number, no address. He doesn’t even know Arthur’s last name.

It’s for the best, he thinks. Travis would be a bad influence on him. He knows that. Last night is just more proof. No matter how he tries to spin it, no matter how pure and _spiritual_ it felt in the moment, there’s something deeply wrong with him. A flaw in his core. The kindest and most respectful thing he can do for Arthur, now, is to let him be. The subway incident was an anomaly. Left alone, Arthur will go back to his normal life. He'll straighten himself out.

Will he?

Arthur lives with his mother. But he was reluctant to call her. Travis gets the sense there’s some friction there. He has a counselor, but he said she didn’t actually listen to him. And it’s not like he can really talk about this with anyone, anyway. 

Travis doesn’t know for sure. But he gets the impression that Arthur doesn’t have anyone he can truly trust. Maybe he’s like Travis. No close friends. No one to comfort him, to help him make sense of this.

He goes to the window and stares out into the gray morning. Hoping, maybe, to catch a glimpse of Arthur leaving. Maybe it’s not too late after all. But he sees only strangers walking past.

“Damn it,” he whispers.

_You should have held him, you coward._

He turns toward the blank gray face of the TV. His fist shoots out, smashing into the bubble of glass. Again and again, until the glass cracks and breaks with a tinkle. He pulls his hand back, knuckles shredded and bleeding. He puts the other fist through the glass. Blood drips to the carpet.

He feels the pain. He feels everything.

He sits on the couch and cradles his head between his injured hands. “God _damn_ it,” he whispers.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a little slower lately but I haven't abandoned this story. Got sidetracked by another project (a short sequel to People Like Us) which I will post the first chapter of soon. :)
> 
> I don't think Arthur's other coworkers were ever given names so I just made some up.

“I heard it was a guy in full makeup.”

“No, the paper said it was a guy in a clown mask.”

Arthur pulls his belongings from the locker, one by one, and shoves them into his duffel bag. He tries to tune out the conversation around him.

“Hey Arthur,” Gary says. “I heard about what happened. Sorry, mate.”

“Yeah,” Randall says, applying his makeup, “doesn’t seem fair.”

At the sound of Randall’s voice, the muscles in Arthur’s back tighten. A red fog of rage rises. A vision flashes behind his eyes: shoving the muzzle of the gun into Randall’s mouth, like an apple in the mouth of a pig, and blowing his brains out the back of his head like a burst of bloody confetti. The vision is startlingly intense and vivid. Arthur’s whole body twitches with the force of it, as though someone applied a jolt of electricity to the base of his spine.

He doesn’t dare look at Randall, or at anyone. As though they might see his thoughts in his eyes.

_It’s his fault._

Arthur never would have bought a gun on his own. It wouldn’t have even occurred to him to try. Randall tempted him, encouraged him to take it, and then lied to save himself.

He closes his eyes, struggling to breathe through the cloud of hornets swarming in his chest. He grabs his wand from the locker and tosses it into the bag.

Through the haze of anger, a deeper voice whispers: _It’s my fault, too._

Arthur liked having the gun. He felt safer with it. Stronger. He started wanting it near him all the time, like a child carrying around a favorite toy. That was why he stupidly left it in his pants when he went into the hospital, instead of keeping it stashed safely in his bag.

Firing it felt good, too.

He pushes the thoughts away. He’s been over all this a thousand times. Cataloging his own mistakes. It doesn’t help.

Charlie turns toward him. “Did you really bring a gun into the children’s hospital, Art? What the fuck would you do that for?”

He resorts to the excuse he gave Hoyt: “It was a prop. For my act. I thought it would be funny to have a fake gun fall out of my pants while I was dancing.”

It sort of _was_ funny. No one was really scared, when the gun fell out. He remembers the blank, bemused expressions on the faces of the staff as they stared at the .38 on the floor—the little girl miming a pistol with her hands. 

“Seriously?” Dwight says. He’s grinning. “For a kids’ show? Are you retarded or something?”

A muscle in Arthur’s jaw twitches. “I’m not—” he stops. Takes a breath. To his mortification, he can feel tears stinging his eyes. He keeps his face downcast. “One of the kids _did_ laugh.”

“Well, bravo.”

Arthur ignores him.

He wipes discreetly at his eyes and glances at Randall, who studiously avoids his gaze and continues applying his makeup.

It occurs to Arthur that maybe Randall _wanted_ him to get fired. That he gave him the gun to set him up.

He knows he’s being paranoid. Randall has no reason to hate him. But then, people have never needed a reason. 

Arthur shuts the locker, slings the duffle bag over his shoulder, and turns toward Gary. “Bye, Gary.” He reaches out a hand—

And Gary flinches back.

Arthur freezes. The space inside his chest seems to shrink. Without a word, he turns and strides out of the room.

As he makes his way down the stairs, a voice behind him calls, “Hey.”

He turns to see Gary standing there on the steps above him. It’s an odd feeling, looking _up_ at him. Arthur hesitates, clutching the strap of his duffel bag. “Yes?”

Gary smiles awkwardly. “Just…saying goodbye. Sorry to see you go.”

Arthur wonders if it was his imagination. The flinch. It must have been. Gary’s always treated him decently. He's the only one here who never made fun of him. One year, he even got Arthur a birthday card. He was the only person who actually remembered Arthur’s birthday, then. Even Penny forgot…though her memory is spotty in general, these days.

“Goodbye, Gary,” he says. “It was nice working with you.”

“Nice working with you, too. Good luck. With whatever comes next.” He hesitates…then takes a few steps down and extends a hand.

Arthur’s throat tightens. He bites down on his lower lip to stop it from trembling, takes Gary’s hand, and shakes it. He lets his hand drop to his side. “Gary…” He draws in a breath, then lowers his voice. “Watch out for Randall.”

Gary frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Please don’t tell anyone, but…I lied about the gun being a prop. It was real. He gave it to me. After I got beat up. I shouldn’t have taken it, but…I think he knew this was going to happen. He knew I’d slip up and do something stupid. Because I don’t always…think very clearly. He’s not someone you can trust.”

Gary stares at him in bafflement, brow furrowed. “If that’s true…shouldn’t you tell Hoyt what happened?”

He could try. But it doesn’t seem worth it. Of course Hoyt wouldn’t believe him. And even if he did, it wouldn’t change much. Arthur still fucked up. “It doesn’t matter, now. I just wanted you to know.”

Arthur turns and walks the rest of the way down the stairs, out the door.

* * *

As he trudges down the street, toward the bus stop, a laugh prickles in the back of his throat. After trying to choke it down a few times, he gives in and brays it out. A woman walks past; she flinches away from him. “S-suh-sorry,” he gasps out. “I have a—”

But she’s already hurrying ahead. Just as well. It gets draining, having to explain all the time.

A grinning clown-face catches his eye, and he stops, turning toward a newspaper stand. Displayed on the front page is a drawing of a clown with sharp teeth. KILLER CLOWN ON THE LOOSE. He stares, transfixed.

_It’s me._

He can’t deny that he feels a dark thrill. A shiver of pleasure. 

_It’s me, it’s me._

No. This sharp-toothed horror movie monster, this boogeyman—it isn’t who Arthur _is_. He thinks about kids seeing the drawing and the headline and getting scared of clowns, and he doesn’t like the thought. He wants to make people happy. He wants to spread joy and laughter and comfort. He’s not—

_Who are you kidding? You enjoyed it._

He turns away and keeps walking.

_You were a terrible clown, Arthur. How many people actually laughed at your act? No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t make people happy._

That isn’t true.

_No one likes Good Arthur. He’s just a whiny loser. But Bad Arthur, maybe…already,_ he’s _getting headlines._

He keeps his head down. One foot in front of the other.

_Do you still think you’re going to be rewarded if you keep behaving yourself? It’s too late for that. What do you think will happen if you keep following that safe, boring path?_

Stop it, he thinks.

_I’ll tell you what will happen. You’ll keep trudging up those stairs, again and again. One day fading into the next, into the next, things getting a little worse with each passing year. And then you’ll die. Alone, unseen. Unwanted. Knowing that you passed through this world without ever changing anything, without ever being heard, that your entire life was just a meaningless series of bad days. That’s the fate of Good Arthur. And that’s the_ best _case scenario. Good Arthur is not even good—not really. He’s just scared. But you don’t have to be him. There is another path. You could follow this energy, see where it leads…_

Another step. Then another. _I’d rather die alone and unwanted than become a monster._

_Why? Who are you holding on for? Your mother? How much longer do you think she’ll be around? What do you even believe in? Everyone is awful these days._

No. Not everyone.

He stops. “He was kind to me,” Arthur whispers aloud. “Even after what I did. Even after…”

Someone bumps into him from behind and snaps, “Watch it!”

Arthur hurries forward, head down.

He wishes—not for the first time—that he could talk to Travis again. But Arthur made up his mind. After what happened, it’s better to stay away.

In any case, he doesn’t remember how to get to Travis’s apartment. At the time, he was too overwhelmed to notice the address or even the name of the street they were on. After he left that night, he just wandered around until he was able to wave down another cab.

Even if he somehow scrounged up the courage to go back, he wouldn’t know where to go.

* * *

He checks the mailbox. Empty, as usual.

As he walks toward the elevators, he sees Sophie enter the building and freezes.

He hasn’t seen her since before the subway incident. His mind flickers back through their first conversation. And after. Following her, watching as she dropped off her daughter and went to work. Knowing it was wrong, knowing she’d be scared if she noticed his presence, but wanting so desperately to feel closer to her, somehow, to know where she went and what she did during her day. And then her surprise appearance at his apartment afterward, when she agreed to come see him at Pogo’s. All of that feels so far away, now.

She gives him a vague, distracted smile. Her daughter isn’t with her this time. Maybe she’s still at school.

“Um. Hi.”

“Hey.”

Arthur pushes the elevator button. The doors slide open, and he steps inside and waits for her. She hesitates briefly before entering.

He watches her from the corner of his eye. She says nothing. Just stares straight ahead.

She’s so pretty. It’s hard to look at her directly for more than a second or two. Just standing in the same space with her makes him feel a little flushed and shaky, like he’s got a fever. He’s always gotten this way around women he’s attracted to.

How was he able to talk to her so easily when she came to his apartment? And why is she acting so distant now, when she was so friendly before?

A terrible suspicion settles into his stomach.

Arthur clears his throat. “It was nice to see you. The other day.”

She meets his gaze. Her brows knit together. “When?”

“Oh…you know. W-we talked.”

“You mean in the elevator?”

“No. The next night. You…came to see me?”

She stares blankly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean.”

The muscles in his stomach tighten. He feels a little dizzy. “Never mind. I was thinking of someone else.”

She hesitates. “Your name’s Arthur, right? You live down the hall. With your mother.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve seen you around a few times.”

He smiles, briefly making eye contact, then drops his gaze. She’s trying to be friendly, but he can sense her uncertainty, her nervousness. He stands in the corner of the elevator, arms behind his back, trying to make himself small and harmless-looking. Trying not to break down laughing.

It’s become such a habit to monitor his own behavior and body language for anything that might make another person uncomfortable. It’s become ingrained into him, after all these years. But it’s still exhausting.

The elevator stops. They get off and walk in opposite directions. He casts a glance over his shoulder. She disappears around the corner without looking back.

How could she not remember?

_I made it up._ That’s the only logical conclusion. Their second conversation never happened. 

It’s not the first time he’s hallucinated conversations between himself and someone he liked. But it hasn’t happened for years. And now, suddenly…

It’s enough to make him wonder if Travis was even real.

Arthur’s never _invented_ someone, before now; his delusions have always involved actual people. But he has no proof of Travis’s existence. Nothing solid to hold onto…except the half-healed cut on his thumb, which could have come from anything.

He presses the tip of his finger against the small wound. It still hurts, a little.

Maybe it would be better, if none of it actually happened. That would mean his humiliating breakdown wasn’t real, either. But it’s _that_ more than anything that convinces him the events of that night actually occurred. Reality always hurts.

And Travis didn’t even see the worst of it.

Arthur rubs his forehead with trembling fingers, inhales slowly, and unlocks the door to his apartment.

His mother is napping in her chair when he enters. The TV is on, showing the news. Arthur’s back stiffens as soon as he sees the screen. They’re showing the faces of the men he killed.

“Three promising futures, snuffed out in a bizarre triple murder,” a solemn voiceover intones. “The killer’s motives remain unclear. Some say it was an act of insanity, the product of a sick and deranged mind. Others call it a political crime, representing a groundswell of anti-rich sentiment in Gotham. Until the killer is identified, no one can say.”

Arthur approaches and slowly sits on the couch, careful not to wake Penny. He lights a cigarette, staring raptly at the screen as a reporter interviews the tearful mother of one of the victims.

“I just…can’t believe he’s really gone. I keep expecting him to call. I keep imagining his voice from the other room.”

The TV shows a montage of family photos. A little boy frolics in an expansive backyard with a golden retriever puppy. The same little boy beams under a Christmas tree, opening presents. There’s a high school graduation photo. Arthur recognizes him—the one who was singing, “Send in the Clowns.”

He knows, of course, that this is reality: the men he killed, however cruel, were human beings. They were children, once. They left behind grieving families.

Still, it strikes Arthur as profoundly unfair that the TV wants to grab his head and rub his nose in the humanity of his victims. The public only cares because they were rich and respected. Because they worked for Thomas Wayne. If their positions were reversed—if one of those men had murdered Arthur—there would be no montage of family photos on the news, no interviews of crying loved ones. He would simply vanish, swallowed up by the dark maw of Gotham.

He thinks about the homeless man he saw dead on the sidewalk, people stepping over him, a fly crawling across his dull, open eye. No TV special for him, either.

“He was a kind boy,” the crying mother says. “Always so giving. Always thinking about others. He never hurt a soul.”

Arthur wonders how well she really knew her own son. He wonders what she would say, if she could see him and his friends harassing the woman on the subway, laughing as they kicked Arthur. _If I told her…_

She wouldn’t believe him. Of course. No one would believe him.

“If you could say something to the killer right now,” the reporter says in a low, solemn tone, “what would it be?”

The woman turns toward the camera, her expression grim. “Turn yourself in. Face what you did. You can’t take it back, but you can take responsibility for the innocent lives you stole.”

Innocent, he thinks.

He exhales a cloud of smoke. What does it mean, to be innocent?

No one has ever felt compelled to take responsibility for the things done to Arthur. For all the times he’s been beaten and shoved down. He’s always been told to take it with a smile.

His pain isn’t real to them; it will never be real to them.

He feels himself spiraling deeper into his head, his thoughts darkening and massing like stormclouds. He pushes a hand through his hair, shuts his eyes and thinks: _Easy. Take it easy._ He hears the thought in Travis’s voice.

His mother stirs. “Happy?” she murmurs.

He forces a slight smile. “Hi, Mom.”

He still hasn’t told her that he lost his job. She’ll worry. She’ll panic. She’ll cry. It’ll just make things harder on both of them. He knows that he _has_ to tell her at some point, but he’s hoping that he can get a new job quickly enough that it won’t be an issue.

He knows, too, that the chances of this are slim.

“Did you check the mail?” she asks groggily.

“Yeah. Nothing.”

“The mailman must be throwing out my letters. Happy, do you think you could go down to the post office tomorrow and ask?”

He rubs his forehead. “Sure, Mom.” It’s easier just to agree. He’s too tired to argue. “What do you want for dinner?”

“We haven’t had spaghetti for a while. I can help you cook it, if you like. My hips aren’t too bad today.”

“That sounds fine.”

She stares at the TV, where the reporter is now interviewing a witness—a middle-aged man—about the crime.

“I only saw ‘im for a few seconds,” he says. “But he was wearing a clown mask, I remember that much. Makes sense, I guess, him tryin’ to hide his identity.”

But it wasn’t a mask, Arthur thinks. He was wearing his makeup from work. He _wasn’t_ trying to hide. It bothers him, for some reason, that they got that detail wrong—even though he should probably be glad. If the witness reports are conflicted, it’ll make it harder for the police to narrow down the suspects.

Penny’s lips tighten. “I just don’t understand the world anymore. How could anyone do something so horrible? Was it for money? Goodness knows _I’d_ like more money, but you don’t see me running around murdering innocent young men.” She shakes her head and sighs. “People have no empathy these days. No compassion.”

Arthur runs his tongue across his teeth. 

If his mother knew the full truth about what happened that night, what would she think? Would she be on his side? Or…

He rolls the cigarette between his fingers. Clears his throat. “It might have been self-defense.”

Her brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

He squirms, trying to keep his expression blank. “I mean…the guy who killed them. You never know. Maybe they attacked him first. Maybe he was just trying to protect himself.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. Those boys weren’t thugs. They worked for Thomas Wayne. Why would they attack him?”

“You don’t know them,” he says. His voice comes out thin and hoarse. “You don’t know if they were good people.”

“Thomas wouldn’t hire them unless they were,” she says firmly. "All his employees are like family. He said so."

His molars scrape together. He can't hold back. "That's ridiculous, Mom. Do you know how many employees he has? He probably doesn't even know most of their names."

"You don't know him like I do. You can't possibly understand."

"You're right. I don't understand. It seems to me like you think those men must be good people just because they're rich."

"Because they're respectable. That's not the same as being rich. You can be poor and respectable. And Thomas Wayne only hires decent, respectable people. He told me so himself."

Arthur opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. This is getting him nowhere. Penny's passionate devotion to her old employer—a man she hasn’t even seen in more than thirty years—is something he’ll never understand. But he has to be careful what he says. If he gets too vocal in his defense of the killer—of himself—she might start to suspect something. “I’m just saying. We don’t know the whole story.”

“There’s nothing that could justify such a horrible crime,” Penny says. “I don’t even _want_ to know why he did it. I don’t care. I just hope they catch him and lock him up before he can hurt anyone else.”

Arthur rubs one hand over the other. He struggles to hold his breathing steady.

“Have you seen those people in clown masks?” Penny asks.

“What people?”

“The protestors. They're all over the news. Some people are actually siding with the criminal. Treating him as some sort of hero. Wearing masks, like his, and saying awful things about Thomas Wayne. It’s sick. I swear, sometimes it seems like the entire world’s gone crazy.”

_Some sort of hero._

Arthur swallows. Strange, conflicted feelings swirl through him.

_They’re on my side?_ But they don’t even know why he did it. They can’t know. They see him as something he’s not.

He draws in a breath. “Mom…”

“Yes, Happy?”

For years, now—decades—his mother has been his best friend, the only person he can confide in. But there’ve always been things he can’t talk to her about. She doesn’t like hearing about his mental illness. It upsets her. If he has thoughts about dying or hurting himself, he keeps them hidden. 

Something like this…

He doesn’t want to think that she would turn him in, if she knew the whole story. But he can’t be sure of that.

His throat tightens. He pushes himself to his feet.

“Happy?”

“Just going to the bathroom,” he mutters.

He retreats to the bathroom, closes the door, and leans over the sink. Secrets have weight, he thinks. They take up space. He can feel them in his chest, pressing against his heart. It aches.

The people who vilify him, and the ones who idolize him—none of them actually know him. 

He’s not a cold-blooded psychopath _or_ a vigilante hero. He’s a scared, lonely, frustrated man who lashed out in desperation. A small, confused man who was handed a gun in a paper bag.

He wasn't making a political statement. He didn’t even know the men were employees of Wayne Enterprises. He just wanted them to stop beating him.

* * *

In the kitchen, he fills a pot with water and turns on the heat. After a few minutes it starts to boil. He thinks about pouring the scalding water over his arm, watching his skin turn red and bubble up into blisters. He thinks about grabbing the potato peeler from the drawer and peeling a strip of flesh off his cheek. As the noodles cook, he imagines a morbid cooking show where the chef cuts off pieces of himself and prepares them, sprinkling on spice even as he bleeds. Sautéd ear. Pan-fried tongue. There’s a joke in there somewhere. Probably too dark for the comedy clubs, though.

Well, it’s not as though he’s ever actually going to be a comedian.

As they cook and eat dinner together, Penny chatters away—mostly about Thomas Wayne’s run for mayor—and Arthur nods and uh-huhs in the right places, which is about all he can manage. His brain is a numb, soggy mass.

“Happy, are you all right? You’re so quiet.”

“I’m just tired. Don’t worry about it.”

Her brow furrows. “Is it something about those subway murders? You seemed bothered when we talked about them.”

His back stiffens. “No. Just…rough day at work. You know.”

“Smile.” She scoots her chair closer to his and pats his arm. “Attitude makes a difference. When you smile, the world smiles with you.”

Arthur’s been smiling for years. He’s still waiting for the world to smile back. “I don’t really feel like smiling right now. Let’s just eat.”

“I can’t eat when you’re giving me that sourpuss look.”

He stretches his lips open, baring his teeth. “There. How’s that?”

“That’s not a smile. Show me a _real_ smile.” She leans toward him, puts her head against his shoulder, and starts singing. “Gray skies are gonna clear up. Put on a happy face.”

Oh god, he can’t take this. Not today.

“Come on. Sing with me.” She pokes his arm and sings a little louder: “Brush off the clouds and cheer up. Put on a happy face.”

He feels an urge to bang his head against the table. But he forces himself to sing with her: “Take off the gloomy mask of tragedy, it’s not your style…”

Somehow, he gets through the rest of the song. Pressure builds and builds inside him. He feels the blood itching in his veins, the dull constricting suffocation of his skin clinging to his skull. He wants to peel it off like a wetsuit and let his bones and nerves breathe.

Still, he sings.

“There,” she says, “now, don’t you feel better?”

Arthur imagines pressing a gun to the underside of his chin, pulling the trigger, spattering the paintings on the wall with blood and bits of brain matter. “Much better,” he says.

* * *

Once dinner is over and Penny is tucked into bed, Arthur sprawls on the couch and pulls a blanket over himself.

His body aches. His bruises have mostly faded, but the ache hasn't.

Being a clown for Ha-Ha’s was the only job he had since getting out of Arkham. And he was lucky to find it. It’s been a long time—six years, almost?—since he’s been job-hunting. He’s not looking forward to it. But he knows if he tries to talk to Penny about it, she’ll just lecture him about the importance of having a positive attitude.

His counseling session is tomorrow. He’ll talk to Dr. Kane. It doesn’t help much—she always seems exhausted and distracted, and he keeps having to tell her the same things, because she forgets—but it’s better than nothing.

He closes his eyes and slips into fantasy. He’s back in Travis’s apartment. Travis is crouched beside him, close enough that Arthur can feel his warmth.

Warm fingers stroke Arthur’s hair, smoothing it away from his forehead. “Rough day?” Travis asks.

“Yeah,” Arthur whispers. He swallows, a lump thickening his throat.

“Wanna talk?”

His tone is gentle. Undemanding.

“The woman on the news said I should turn myself in,” he says softly.

Travis’s hand rests on his head. “That’s up to you. But I don’t think you getting locked up is gonna bring those guys back.”

“Maybe I’m dangerous. Maybe I _should_ be in a cage.”

“You plannin’ to kill anyone else?”

“I fantasized about killing Randall today.”

“But you didn’t.” Travis keeps stroking his hair. It’s calming. Even if it’s not real.

He keeps his eyes closed, thinking about the gun. He still has it, hidden away in a drawer, inside a paper bag. Stupid, he knows. He meant to get rid of it, but he just couldn’t let it go. “Maybe it would be better if I just killed myself, instead.”

“Don’t do that, Arthur.”

“Why?” he whispers. “Why does it matter to you?”

“Because you’re my friend.”

Tears prick the corners of Arthur’s eyes. “You’ll be my friend?”

“Yeah. I will.”

Maybe he and Travis really could have become friends, if things had happened differently. If they’d found each other sooner. 

A voice deeper inside whispers, _Is that all he wanted? Friendship?_

The way he looked at Arthur, so intently…it was almost like…

A strange, disorienting feeling washes over him. He remembers the warmth of Travis’s hand resting against his back. _What if…_

It doesn’t matter now.

He drifts, for a while, through that murky space between dreams and waking. The fantasy of Travis fades away as exhaustion weighs him down.

Someone giggles.

Arthur’s eyes snap open. He holds his breath.

The room is still and empty. The only sound is the tick of the clock. “Hello?” he says. Or tries to say. His voice-box is frozen, and only a faint croak escapes.

Tick, tick.

It wasn’t Penny, he thinks. It was a man’s voice. Arthur lays still, listening. He tries to get up, but he can’t move. His eyes are open, but his body won’t listen to him. He’s glued to the couch.

_Click._

His gaze darts to the door of the apartment. The knob turns. The door creaks open, just an inch. The light of the hallway bleeds in. But he can’t see who’s on the other side.

He shuts his eyes tight. Opens them a crack. The door is still ajar. He glimpses the tip of a shoe, poking in through the small gap.

_Move,_ he thinks at his body. _Move, move, move, move._ His breathing escalates and escalates. Just one finger, he thinks. The forefinger of his right hand twitches.

The shoe withdraws, and the door closes.

The invisible restraints fall away. Arthur sits up. Shaking, he stands, slowly approaches the door and opens it. The hallway beyond is empty.

Of course. Because there was no one there to begin with.

He retreats to the couch, sits, and runs his hands through his hair.

Back in Arkham, before they got the balance of his meds right, he had a few other experiences like that. Like dreaming, but with his eyes open. Unable to move.

He would feel someone near him. In bed next to him, in the darkness. Fingers touching his face, gently. Intimately. Or he’d glimpse someone standing motionless in a shadowed corner.

The visitor never spoke. Arthur never saw his face—though he always felt it was a _he._ There was just that sense of presence. Watching over him.

_Not real._ Just his own brain.

He remembers the pressure of fingers on his skin. The warmth of breath. The glint of an eye.

“Who are you?” he whispers.

But he knows, of course. He knows.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time. I've been working on "West" but I wanted to update this, since it's been a while.
> 
> Also, new fanvid, for Taxi Driver this time: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M2fgU4NjIic I wanted to capture that sense of insomnia and paranoia and repetition, the feeling of driving around at three AM. Content warning for brief nudity.

_I dreamed that a rat crawld into my stummick and died and was rotting and I was coffing up the bones into the sink._

_I dreamed that I was in a white room and I had to take off all my clothes._

_I dreamed that I was already ded and I was a gost and no one could see me. I kept trying to talk to my mother but she just kept looking at the TV._

_I have other dreams. They arent bad dreams though. They feel good. Those dreams scare me more than the others becus I wake up smiling._

_I think Im going crazy. I dont know how to stop it. I dont know if I want to._

* * *

Arthur sits in the chair across from Dr. Kane, gripping one knee. “I’ve been writing in my journal.” He hands it to her.

She leafs through the pages, glancing here and there. Not really reading. “You did more drawings.”

“Yeah.”

She studies the sketches: a figure on its knees, face scribbled out. Another scribble-faced figure fucking an anus in the back of the first one’s skull. On the page across from it is drawing of a gun, and a screaming face with an explosion of black scribbles pouring out of its eyes and mouth.

He feels like he’s being obvious. Maybe a part of him wants to be caught. He’s thought about it…fantasized about it, almost—showing up at the police station or at Arkham, his wrists pressed together and held out for the cuffs, his own voice saying, _I killed those three men on the subway._

He imagines doing it in different ways. Meekly. Boldly. Grinning or weeping. Contrite or unrepentant.

There is something appealing about the fantasy of confession. Something strangely exhibitionist about it. Like stripping for an audience. An act of submission, maybe—yet also a form of taking control. _Making_ them see. There’s a thrill in the idea of flinging himself at the mercy of their judgment and just _not caring_.

Of course there is terror and shame, too. Surprisingly little shame. But fear, yes.

Look, world. Here’s meek little Arthur Fleck, the man who took it and took it until he couldn’t anymore. He’s the murderer. He’s the one you’re searching for. Are you surprised? Are you curious? What is inside this man? Do you want to dissect him? He’ll let you. He’ll spread himself open. He’ll lead you on a whimsical adventure through the thorny, twisted labyrinth of his brain. Bright colors, calliope music. Don’t mind the skeletons.

_Look at me,_ he thinks. _Look at my ugly innards. Look at my bloodstained hands. Be horrified if you want. Damn me to hell, lock me in a cage, electrocute me. Just_ see _me, please. Hate me into existence. Let me be born in your eyes before you kill me._

“I had a bad week,” he says.

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

His leg bounces. “I got fired.”

“I’m…very sorry to hear that.” She interlaces her hands, taps her thumbs together. “Did something happen? I had the impression your job was going well.”

“I made a mistake.”

She waits. Arthur just keeps bouncing his leg. “Do you want to talk about that?” she asks.

The words flutter in his throat, then die. Flame-bright moths wilting and falling back into his stomach. “No. Not really.”

“All right.” A pause. “Have you been searching for a new job?”

He has. Though he feels like he’s just going through the motions. Filling out applications and turning them in is a ridiculous bit of private theater, a performance for himself.

He has to _try._ Penny’s social security is just enough to float them by, but after they’ve paid for rent and food, there’s nothing left. One stroke of bad luck and they’ll be out on the streets. She wouldn’t survive that. Neither of them would.

He’s turned in more than two dozen applications over the past week, and he’s heard back from only one of those places—a manual labor position in a warehouse, loading crates into trucks. He had a bad laughing attack during the interview, which is probably why they never called him back. It probably wouldn’t have worked out anyway.

And, of course, there’s the awkward fact that he still hasn’t told his mother he was fired from his clowning job.

“Being a clown is all I know how to do,” he says. “But I can’t go back to that. So I think I’m just fucked.”

She blinks a few times. He doesn’t usually curse in front of her. But she recovers quickly. “I’m sure that isn’t true. You told me you worked at a few different jobs when you were younger.”

“I’ve gotten fired too many times since then. There are all these empty spots I can’t explain. Once you’ve made too many mistakes, they don’t let you come back. I think I’ve run out of chances.”

“If you start out assuming you’re going to fail, you won’t get very far.”

She sounds like Penny. “Keep a positive attitude. Is that what you’re saying?”

“It wouldn’t hurt.”

The idea of trying to be _positive_ now, on top of everything else, just makes him so tired. When he’s in pain (which is most of the time, these days), nothing is more exhausting than trying to ignore the pain. To act as though it’s not there. 

For once, he wants to act the way he feels. To scream and rage. To laugh like a maniac and cry. And to not have to hide it.

He closes his eyes for a moment. Lights a cigarette. Takes a drag. “Smile and put on a happy face,” he says. “I’m _oh_ so tired of doing that.”

“I realize it’s frustrating. But all we can do is keep trying.”

Maybe he expects too much from her. She’s really more of a case worker than a therapist. Her job is not to help him achieve personal happiness; just to check in on him, to make sure he’s functioning on a basic level, to ask a series of routine questions, to look for warning signs. She’s not paid enough to deal with all his shit. But he’s tired of keeping it contained.

“Look at me, Dr. Kane.”

She shifts in her chair. She seems uncertain. Off balance. “I’m looking.”

“What do you see?”

Another pause. “I see you. Arthur Fleck.”

“You can do better than that.”

She sighs. He can see the frustration leaking out through the cracks in her professional armor. She doesn’t want to play this game. But she pauses to think about her answer. “I see a man who’s…trying. Trying to do the right things. Even when it’s difficult.”

He laughs. His throat tightens, cutting off the sound.

He _is_ trying. Trying to get through each day. Trying to eat regularly, even when his stomach doesn’t want food. Trying not to burn himself when he’s stressed. Trying, trying.

_Sanity is a lot of work, isn’t it? And it never ends._

The corners of his mouth twitch. Muscles in his face tighten.

_You’re like a rat on a wheel. Running and running but you never get anywhere._

“Thank you,” he says. “For seeing that.”

“I _do_ see you, Arthur.”

_But how much? How much do you see?_

He holds the end of the cigarette against his lower lip. “No matter how hard I try to act normal,” he says, “I’m not. And people can smell it on me. They think I’m creepy. I see it in their eyes. I see it in your eyes, too.”

A pause. “I don’t think you’re creepy. I understand you have a condition. It’s not something you can control.”

His fingers flex on his knee, digging in. “It makes you nervous when I laugh. I can tell. It’s okay. You can’t control that, either. You try to hide your nervousness, which is more than I can say for most people.”

“I’m not…” She stops. Lowers her head.

He knows he’s being combative. Normally, confrontations horrify him. But something has shifted inside his head. His tongue has been unlocked. The words keep flowing, almost without his permission. “You probably don’t have any say in who your patients are. You’re just stuck with me. I mean, who would _choose_ me?”

No response.

“If you’re afraid of me, I can’t blame you. I’m a crazy person, after all. Crazy people are violent. They’re unpredictable.”

_Shut up,_ he thinks. _Shut up._ Why is he saying these things? 

“You’re not crazy. You’re ill.”

“I prefer ‘crazy.’”

She replies in her neutral way: “Do you ever think about doing violent things, Arthur?”

“If I said ‘yes,’ would you have to report that?”

“Not unless I believed you were an imminent threat. If you told me you were planning to hurt someone, for instance.”

_What if I’ve already done it?_ The question teeters on the edge of his tongue. He swallows it. So many unsaid words piling up in his stomach. He can feel them swirling around in there. He doesn’t need food. He lives on cigarettes and unspoken words. “I’m not planning to hurt anyone.”

“Then no. Having occasional violent thoughts or impulses is not uncommon. It can be a way for the mind to cope with the injustices of the world.”

A laugh scratches at the back of his throat. “What about you?” He raises the cigarette slowly to his lips. A smile pulls at them. “Do you have those kind of thoughts, Doctor? Do you ever want to punish the world for the ways it’s hurt you?”

“We’re here to talk about you.”

“You say that. But you just ask me the same questions every week. That’s how it was with the doctors at Arkham, too. They all ask if I’ve been having negative thoughts, or if I want to harm myself or someone else. But it’s not because they think my feelings matter. It’s because I’m a bomb, and it’s their job to stop me from going off. To keep me quiet. To keep me small.”

He takes a drag on the cigarette.

“My anger, my pain—those things are just a _problem,_ aren’t they?The problem is never what other people have done to me. It’s never that anything else needs to change. It’s always that _I_ need to change. I’m the one who has to work harder. I’m the one who has to keep a positive attitude. To keep choking down the pain. I can feel it burning a hole in my stomach.”

“The world is unfair. That’s unlikely to change anytime soon. We all have to adjust as best we can.”

“So that’s it. We just keep taking it and taking it.”

“No. We talk about it.”

“I talk,” he says. “I talk here, anyway. But nothing ever changes. It never gets easier. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.” Another drag. “I wonder—even if I _did_ explode, would anyone notice? People explode every day, don’t they? Like balloons bursting. Pop, pop, pop. What’s one more?”

Another pause. “Arthur…if you’re thinking of doing anything drastic…harming yourself, or…”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m not going to explode. I still want to be good.” He lets out a breath of laughter. “I don’t even know why. Maybe it’s just fear. But I still want people to smile at me. I don’t want to hurt or scare anyone. I don’t want to cause trouble. It still makes me sad, when I scare people. Because I know what it’s like to be scared. It’s not a good feeling, is it?”

“No. It’s not.”

“Hmm-mm. So I’ll be _positive._ I’ll keep looking for work and I’ll keep taking my meds. And I’ll keep coming here and writing in my journal and talking. If even one person sees me trying, it’s enough.”

Silence.

“Dr. Kane?”

She breathes a long, slow sigh. “Actually…Arthur…I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

His insides go still. 

She keeps talking. But the words fade out. A ringing fills his ears as he sits, motionless. 

“Arthur? Do you understand?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Arthur.”

“Yes,” he hears himself say.

“This is the last time we’ll be meeting.”

The ringing still fills his head. “My medication,” he says. “I get my medication through this program.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

So that’s it, he thinks. That’s it.

“If at any point you feel you’re an imminent danger to yourself or others, you can check yourself back into Arkham. Aside from that…I’m afraid it’s out of our hands.”

He tips his head back, staring at the ceiling, and lets his eyes blur.

Maybe he was always destined to wind up back in the hospital. Maybe it doesn’t matter. He felt better when he was locked up there. Didn’t he?

“My mother,” he says. “If I’m locked up in there, who will take care of her?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t answer that question for you.”

* * *

Arthur sits at the kitchen table, staring at the blank fields on a two-page application for a position as a grocery store clerk. He had a job in a grocery store once, in his early twenties. It didn’t last long. He doesn’t even remember, now, why he was fired. It all blurs together.

_Explain any periods of unemployment._

Saying that he was in a loony bin for several years would instantly destroy his chances. He usually just puts down “illness,” but of course, that invites questions.

At this point, he’s just going through the motions. Even if he manages to get a job, he won’t be functional once his meds run out.

_You might as well have fun with it. Who gives a fuck? Draw screaming faces in the margins. Give it to them covered in mysterious bloodstains and lipstick-scribbles. Maybe paste in a few pictures of naked women with animal heads._

He pushes the application away, lights a cigarette, and snuffs it out. He’s trying to cut back. Trying.

He lights another cigarette. Smokes it all.

The idea of checking himself into Arkham sounds more and more appealing. But his mother is sleeping in the other room. If he goes back to the hospital she’ll cry. Exasperating as she is, blind as she is, she loves him. She’s the only person who does. Probably the only one who ever will. He can’t abandon her.

He pushes a shaking hand through his hair and finds himself reaching, again, for the memory of Travis. Firm, gentle fingers on his wrist. A steady, warm gaze.

But he knows that Travis can’t save him. He’s in the past, now. The memory will gradually fade and lose its potency. He will forget what Travis’s face looked like. Already it’s getting blurry in his head.

He fills out the rest of the grocery store application as best he can. There are a lot of blank spots.

* * *

_I dont know why I am still writing in this jurnal. There’s no one to read it anymore._

_I have been thinking a lot about evil. About what it means. I wonder if I am evil._

_Maybe its like a tumer. Maybe its been growing in me all this time and I just didnt work hard enough to stop it. I didnt try hard enough. I let myself have bad thoughts. Maybe if you have too many bad thoughts it makes you a bad person. Maybe it makes you dirty on the inside._

_Can anyone hear me? Can you hear me Travis? Do you still think about me?_

_I think its too late for me. But I am still trying. I want you to know that._

_Pleas beleve in me. I need to know that someone beleves in me. I need to know that someone somewhere knows the real me and what I did and still thinks that I am good. I want to hold on. But every day its harder to remember why._

_Pleas someone anyone_

_Pleas help_

_help_

_help_


	7. Chapter 7

A sharp-toothed face grins from the front page of a newspaper. Travis lingers in front of the stand, studying the ink drawing and the headline above it. KILLER CLOWN ON THE LOOSE.

Who else _could_ it be?

Over the past week, he’s heard a lot of talk about the subway murders. Of course, people get murdered in Gotham every day. Just business as usual. But a killer clown is weird enough to raise a few eyebrows…and the victims, apparently, were young up-and-coming hotshots who worked for Wayne Enterprises. That makes these murders _news._

Suddenly, Arthur’s famous. Even if no one knows his name or identity.

Travis buys a copy of the paper, along with a Coke and a package of Chuckles.

The seller glances down and says, “Crazy shit, huh?”

“I’ve seen crazier,” Travis says. “I’m from New York.”

“You think this was some kinda political thing?”

“Political? Why?”

“Well, Thomas Wayne’s runnin’ for mayor, you know? These guys worked for him. Maybe this clown was trying to send a message.”

“Who knows,” Travis says. Though of course, _he_ does. And he knows it wasn’t about that.

“You seen those people around?” the guy asks. “Wearin’ those masks? I guess he’s got a few admirers.”

“Yeah. I've seen 'em.” Travis hesitates. Wondering how much to say. “What do you think about all that?”

“I just sell newspapers.” He smiles, showing a gap in his teeth.

“Fair enough.”

“What about you?"

He wonders how Arthur feels about all this. The people holding up FUCK THE RICH signs and breaking shit.

Travis isn’t sure what to think, himself. He’s no fan of Thomas Wayne, or rich politicians in general. They’re all phonies. Hell, he tried to assassinate one of them. Of course, he was in the midst of a mental breakdown, at the time. And (though he doesn't want to admit it, even to himself, because it reflects the ugliest side of his nature) that was really more about getting back at Betsy for rejecting him. Or wanting her to notice him, or something. Trying to shoot the guy she supported for President wasn't a social statement, though it probably would've been spun that way if he succeeded. Those were the actions of a broken, confused, angry man lashing out blindly at a world that had disappointed him. _Look at me._

Last night, driving around, he watched a pair of kids in clown masks spray-painting the side of a building, whooping in excitement. Pumped up with the feeling that they were doing something important. Fires blooming here and there in the night, like little orange flowers. He drove past a group of men in clown masks beating and kicking another man in the street—who or why, he had no idea. He stopped and got out of the cab and they all scattered, even the injured one, limping and dripping blood. There are screams echoing through the darkness. Gunshots. More than usual, anyway.

None of it feels logical. It's a teakettle of acid boiling over. A primal scream. _Look at me._

God knows there’s never any shortage of pissed off, frustrated people running around in a city like New York or Gotham. That anger is always there, seething beneath the surface. Travis has seen enough bloodshed to know how fragile and easily ruptured the skin of order is. He can’t deny, there is something gratifying about watching it happen yet again. It confirms some deep-seated and unpleasant belief about humanity that resides within his own soul. Isn’t this a reflection of truth? Doesn’t it always come down to this? A few claw their way to the top, over mountains of bodies, and then they themselves are torn to pieces. No one can escape it, not for long. It’s blood and bullets and grasping hands all the way down.

But this wasn’t Arthur’s plan. He wasn’t sending a message or trying to spark some kind of uprising. He was defending his own life. Nothing more, nothing less.

And now these people have turned him into a symbol without his consent. Wearing his face. Using him, hiding behind him. There’s something about it that rubs Travis the wrong way.

“I think they’re a bunch of screwheads,” he says.

The man chuckles. "Aren't we all."

"Yeah. Guess we are." Travis walks away, scanning the story. Not a lot of detail. They don’t seem to have any leads, aside from the whole clown thing. But even _that_ might be enough for them to track down Arthur. Especially since he was fired (on the same day as the murders, no less) for bringing a gun into a children’s hospital.

He stuffs the rolled-up paper into the pocket of his jacket and walks on, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jackets. A cold wind rustles his hair.

His mind drifts.

Since that night, the days have gone by in a blur. He works late. Sleeps in past noon—when he _can_ sleep, anyway. He drinks, snacks on benzos, and watches TV. It’s the usual routine, but it feels more desperate with each passing day.

_You let him go. You idiot. You should have told him._

Told him what, though? That Travis was in love with him? Despite the fact that they just met? Yeah, that would’ve gone over real well. A grown man spouting that kind of Disney shit. And right after a triple homicide.

_What if he feels the same?_

He doubts that.

Travis gets into his cab and drives around for a while. Finds himself circling past Arkham Asylum.

A few times, since moving here, Travis has thought about going to a shrink, trying to get meds from a legit source. But fear of being locked up in Arkham kept him away.

Loony bins have always scared the shit out of him. He had an uncle who spent most of his life in one of those places. Travis visited him once, with his mother. He remembers the sour urine smell, the sound of sobs echoing down the hallway. Someone banging on a door, saying _let me out,_ and Travis’s mother grasping his hand and tugging him hurriedly past. The unspoken message: _When these people are begging, you ignore them._

He turns a corner and keeps driving. The building disappears behind him.

The last line of Arthur’s note floats through his head: _Pleas forget about me._

That would be the wisest course of action, for many reasons. Just go on with his life. Keep driving his cab. Forget that moment in the tunnel. Forget the sight of Arthur’s thin body mottled with bruises. Forget the softness of his voice, his smile, the pain in his eyes…

Hasn’t he learned his lesson? Hasn’t he figured out, by now, that when he tries to get involved—tries to play the hero—he just makes things worse? 

But he can’t forget. Arthur has crawled inside his skull and made a cozy little nest for himself there.

Travis is attracted to him, yes—that much is undeniable. But it’s not just sexual. Might be easier, if it were. What he feels when he thinks of Arthur is like a sort of homesickness for a place he’s never been. A yearning, an ache rooted somewhere between his stomach and heart.

* * *

At home, he stares at the front of the newspaper, the face of the grinning killer clown. He cuts it out and tapes it on his fridge. It’s not Arthur, but it’s a reminder of him. The fiction painted over the reality.

He does some digging, poring through the Gotham phonebook. He should've done this a week ago. But he held back. He can't hold back anymore.

He finds the nearest clown agency. Calls the number. After two rings, someone picks up. “This is Ha-Ha’s,” says a man’s voice. “Can I help you?”

For someone who works at a clown agency, he sure sounds bored and lifeless. “Yeah,” Travis says. “I'm lookin’ for someone. Someone named Arthur.”

The man lets out a flat, humorless laugh. “Oh. Him.”

“Does he work there?”

“Not anymore. Good riddance.”

Travis rolls the pen slowly between his fingers. “Was there a problem with him?”

“I’d say he had a few problems.” The man snorts. “I don’t know why I hired him in the first place. He was a fuckin’ weirdo.”

“Weirdo, huh?” Travis asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral. Or trying. "You think so?"

The man must hear something in his tone he doesn’t like. His voice turns suspicious. “Who are you? What’s this about?”

“It’s confidential.”

“Confidential, my ass.”

“I just got a few more questions—”

“Are you with the police?”

“I’m an interested third party.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Private investigator. Can’t give you the name of my client, obviously.”

“Yeah? What’s _your_ name?”

“Sam Finch.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind.

“Uh-huh. So if I look up ‘Sam Finch’ in the phone book under private investigators I’m gonna find you there, right?”

Damn it. He should have actually looked up a name and used that. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

“Just give me a second here—”

Travis hangs up.

So much for that. He still doesn’t even know Arthur’s last name.

He sits at the kitchen table for a few minutes, thinking. Then he gets out a piece of notebook paper and a pen and starts writing.

_Arthur,_

_I’ve been thinking about you a lot over the past week. I would like to see you again._

He considers leaving it at that. But it would be dishonest to pretend that his interest is only casual. If he can’t relate to other people in a normal way, the least he can do is be upfront about his abnormality. Give himself a warning label, sort of. 

He keeps writing: _I know we only spent a little time together. But you changed my life. Maybe that sounds crazy, but it’s the truth. You gave me a glimpse of something outside this hell. I feel as though we’re connected in some way. Maybe it’s all in my head. I don’t know._

_It may be that you’re looking for a friend, and if so I can try to be that, though I don’t have much experience in that department._

_My phone number is written on the back of this page. If I don’t hear back from you, I won’t try to contact you again._

He folds up the paper, slips it into an envelope and writes his own address in the corner. But of course, he has no way to deliver it to Arthur.

* * *

Later, he drives to Ha-Ha’s and lurks around the building in his cab, watching the entrance through his sunglasses.

Arthur’s not there anymore, of course. Travis is not expecting him to come out. But aside from his first name, this agency is the only connection he has to him. So he waits, slowly sipping from a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Thinking.

_What are you doing, Travis?_

He keeps his gaze fixed on the door.

_You went through all this shit with Betsy. When are you going to learn?_

Travis rubs his forehead. This is different, he tells himself. He just wants to talk to Arthur. That’s all. Just wants to make sure he’s okay. 

Right.

The door to the building swings open, and a man emerges. A dwarf in a blue sweater. He has a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He zips up his jacket and makes his way down the street.

Travis pulls up alongside him and rolls down the window. “Hey, can I talk to you a second?”

The dwarf stops, hanging back, eyeing Travis with a hint of suspicion. “Sure, mate. What about?” He has an accent. Australian? 

Travis gives the man his best I’m-not-a-serial-killer smile. “You worked with a guy named Arthur, right?”

He raises his eyebrows. “You’re looking for Arthur?” It comes out sounding like _Arfur._ “How do you know him?”

Travis hesitates, one arm slung over the edge of the open window. “He’s…a friend, I guess.”

“You guess?”

He tried bullshitting the guy on the phone, and that didn’t work. He decides to just tell the truth. “We don't know each other too well. I guess I don’t really know what to call him. But I need to talk to him, and I don’t have his number. Don’t know much about him except where he works. So I figured…”

“You figured you would just hang around the building until someone came out?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“No offense,” the man says, “but that seems a bit…off.”

“I can see how it would come across that way.”

“Bit suspicious.”

“I get it.” So far this isn’t going great, either. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

The man squints at him in the grimy Gotham sunlight. He averts his gaze. “Doesn’t matter, anyway. He’s gone.”

Maybe it’s Travis’s imagination, but he sounds a little sad.

“Listen,” he says, “I know this is weird. It’s hard to explain. But believe me, I’m not—” he stops, takes a breath, and runs a hand over his hair, frustrated. _Not a bad guy._ He can’t quite bring himself to say that. “I don’t wanna get him in trouble, or anything. It’s not like that. I don’t know how to explain.”

The man stares at him for a moment longer. There’s a shift in his expression.

Behind Travis, a car honks. He’s not supposed to be parked here. “Shit,” he mutters. “Uh—listen, can I buy you lunch or somethin’? There’s a diner right down the street. We can talk easier there. Just so I’m not shoutin’ out the window at you.”

The man hesitates, glancing from Travis to the diner, then shrugs. “Fine.”

“What’s your name, by the way?”

“Gary. Yours?”

“Travis. Nice to meet you.”

* * *

Travis offers to drive him down the block, but Gary declines. He walks the rest of the way there while Travis finds a metered spot and parks.

They sit in a corner booth. A waitress approaches. Gary orders a ham and cheese sandwich. Travis orders coffee and a bowl of cornflakes.

Gary’s still winded from the walk, flushed and puffing a little.

“I wouldn’t have charged you for the ride, you know,” Travis says.

“Yeah, I know.”

The waitress brings out the food. There’s a container of pancake syrup on the table. Travis pours some on his cornflakes.

Gary raises an eyebrow. “No offense, mate, but that’s disgusting.”

“You ever tried it? Here.” He pushes the bowl toward him. “Have a bite. I haven’t touched it yet.”

“No thanks.” He takes a bite out of his sandwich. “So how do you know Arfur?”

Travis looks out the window, trying to think of a way to tell as much truth as possible while leaving out the murders. He’s probably going to have to disclose more than he’s comfortable with. But it’s doubtful he’ll ever see this guy again, after today. What does it matter? “A little while ago, I had sort of a rough night,” Travis says. “Went down to the subway tunnel with a bottle of benzos, planning to check out. Arthur stopped me. Saved my life.”

Gary freezes. Slowly, he sets the sandwich down.

“He was going through a pretty bad time himself. He got fired that day. You probably heard about that.”

“Yeah. Brought a gun into the kids’ hospital.”

“Right. Anyway. We talked for a while. A long time, actually.” He pauses. Again, wondering how much to say, how much to hold back. “He had one of his attacks. You know, the laughing.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“He got embarrassed and left.” He stirs his cornflakes around. “He brought me back from the edge. And I never really thanked him. Not properly. And…I think he’s not doin’ so good, himself. I know that’s none of my business. I just feel like I owe him.”

Gary peels the crust, bit by bit, off a slice of bread. “When you first said you were looking for him…I thought it had something to do with those subway killings.”

Travis keeps his face blank, but the muscles in his back tighten. “Why?”

“Because it happened the same day he got fired. It was a clown that did it. And he had a gun. It’s awful, but…I had the thought. That it might’ve been him. The last time he came in—you know, to get his stuff—I was a little afraid of him. But if you say he was with you that night…”

“He was. All night.”

Gary stares down at the table. “I feel terrible. For thinking that about Arfur. He isn’t that sort of person.”

“You knew him, then? I mean, I know you worked together, but…”

“We were never close. We talked a few times. Got ‘im a card for his birthday, once.” He keeps picking bits of crust off his sandwich. “I remember…when I handed it to him and said happy birthday, he looked like he was about to cry. Like it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him. Some of the guys thought he was weird, but I know what that’s like. Having people look at you funny. And Arfur always seemed…I dunno. Sad. Quiet. But decent. Never raised his voice, never said an unkind word about anyone. Even when the others made fun of ‘im. And still, when I heard about the murders, I…” He rubs his forehead. His face contorts.

“You had no way of knowing,” Travis says.

It’s ironic. Gary’s right about the murders. But he’s also right about Arthur being decent, at heart. Not like Travis can explain, though.

“I dunno if you have his address, or anything like that,” Travis says. “Even if you do, I know you can’t give it to me. Me bein’ a stranger and all. But if you do know how to get in touch with him…” He pulls the envelope out of his pocket and pushes it across the table.

Gary eyes the envelope uncertainly.

“I just want him to know that he can talk to me, if he wants. Maybe this is over the line. I dunno. But I'm asking.”

“All right,” Gary says. “I can send it to him.”

Travis lets out a quiet breath. “I appreciate it.”

"Can't say if he'll respond. I don't know what sort of state he's in right now."

"I know."

Gary swirls the tip of a French fry in a puddle of ketchup. “So, are you going to tell me who you are?”

“I told you my name. There’s not much else to say. I’m a cab driver. A nobody.”

“Everybody’s somebody.”

“Guess so. But I’m about as close to nobody as it’s possible for somebody to get.” He guesses that’s not strictly true, considering what happened in New York. But it doesn’t feel like a lie, either. Here in Gotham, he’s nobody, and he tries to keep it that way.

Travis takes another bite of his syrup-covered cornflakes.

Gary sighs. “All right.”

“All right what?”

“Let me try it.”

Travis pushes the bowl toward him. Gary takes a small, careful bite from his own spoon and wrinkles his nose. “I was right,” he says. “That’s wretched. Don’t know what I thought I was going to get. It tastes exactly like I imagined cornflakes with syrup would taste.”

Travis shrugs and keeps eating.

* * *

Clouds hang overhead, their dark bellies swollen and pregnant with rain. Travis drives away from the diner.

He thinks about Arthur. His soft, hesitant movements. His large, deep eyes. The way he pressed a hand down on his knee to stop it from bouncing when he was anxious.

Thunder growls. The clouds open, and the rain pours down.

He has no way of knowing if he'll ever hear from Arthur. Maybe he doesn’t want to see Travis again. Maybe Arthur just wants to forget that whole night. Travis couldn’t blame him. And there is a little voice in the back of his head telling him that getting attached will just end in pain.

He remembers Betsy storming away from him, yanking her arm from his hand. Remembers the look of horror on Iris’s face the last time he saw her. Even Cat…waking up to the sight of her dead on the pillow…

Animals die. People die, or they leave. If he and Arthur become a part of each other’s lives, there’s a chance they’ll just hurt each other. Maybe it'll all go up in fire.

But God help him, he wants to see that man again.

A pair of people in clown masks dart across the street and hurl bricks through a window. Glass shatters. Someone screams. A deep voice from inside starts yelling. _"You fucking little pricks!"_

_"Fuck the rich! Fuck the system!"_

A gun goes off from inside. The clowns disappear into an alley, shrieking with half-terrified, half-elated laughter and holding up their middle fingers.

Ahead, a pillar of fire burns. A mountain of garbage has been set ablaze, and black choking smoke fills the air. The smell is nauseating. A headache pulses behind his eyes. He used to get headaches back in New York, a lot. Blinding, dizzying ones. Like someone holding his optic nerve in a pair of pliers and twisting.

The world is on fire. Business as usual.

* * *

A day passes. Then another, then another. The TV shows crowds of protestors. Thomas Wayne, insulated from the destruction in his gated mansion, drones on about the deterioration of law and order and about his run for mayor.

"I want to save this city from itself," he says, "but it won't be easy. We'll need to make some major changes. In these trying times, we can no longer afford lenience, passivity or uncertainty. There is no neutral ground, here. We must have justice. We must have consequence for all those who do harm. And we must be swift and decisive in meting it out, or the destruction will never stop. We must choose-"

Travis turns off the TV.

One rainy night, he’s eating dinner, and the phone rings. He picks it up. “Travis Bickle.”

On the other end of the line, he hears a small, strangled whimper. Shuddering breaths. He sits up straighter. An electric current passes through his body, and suddenly, every nerve is alive and tingling.

“Arthur? Is that you?”

“It’s me.”

Dizziness washes over Travis. His vision goes briefly fuzzy. After a moment, he finds his voice. “Hey. Hey, Arthur. Glad you called.”

“I, um. I got your letter.”

“Yeah?” His heart pounds. Sweat dampens his palms.

“I didn’t think I was ever going to hear from you again,” Arthur whispers.

“I wasn’t sure how to contact you. I gave the letter to one of your old coworkers. Gary.”

“I was wondering. It just showed up in my mailbox.”

Awkward silence falls between them.

“You’re in the papers,” Travis remarks, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“I know.”

“I’ve been in the papers too. Back in New York. Kind of a weird feeling. Like it’s you, but it’s not really you.”

“Yeah,” he whispers.

“It was what I wanted, for a long time. To be somebody. But then once it happened…”

“They don’t really see me.”

“Yeah. They see…”

Arthur says, “A monster.” In the same moment, Travis says, “A hero.”

They both lapse into silence.

“Maybe monsters are just heroes looked at from another angle,” Travis says. “I dunno. Seems like some people _do_ see you as a hero.”

“I don’t feel like one,” Arthur says. “I keep hearing about those people on the news. The masks."

"Yeah?"

A pause. "A part of me likes it. A part of me _wants_ it. To watch everything fall apart. Because of something I did. It makes me feel like...I exist. But…"

He waits.

"Everyone—the newspapers, and those people, and Thomas Wayne—they’re all just making it about what they want it to be about. It has nothing to do with me. They don't even know who I am. Sometimes...it just makes me more lonely. And people are getting hurt. I don't know how far it's going to go. I don't know what will happen, now. I keep going back and forth. Enjoying it and being scared of it. I feel like I'm waking up. But I'm waking up into a dream. Like we're in Wonderland, and Wonderland is on fire.” He lets out a short, choked laugh. “I think I’m losing my mind. I’ve felt this way before. I was in Arkham, you know. For a few years.”

He thinks about the hospital, looming gray and cold against the equally gray and cold Gotham sky. “They locked you up?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I cut my wrists. I did it wrong, though. It didn’t work.”

A suicide attempt. He feels no surprise. Maybe he had already intuited as much. He saw Arthur hold the gun to his own head, after he shot down that man.

“I want to see you again,” Travis says.

“Travis…I…” His voice flutters. He lets out another small, choked whimper. “I don’t…know if I should.”

Travis’s stomach sinks.

“I _want_ to. But…it’s hard to explain.”

“It’s okay.” But his voice comes out wooden. Hollow. “I just wanted to make sure you were doin’ all right. Though...I guess 'all right' isn't quite right.”

"No. Nothing is all right."

Rain drums softly against the window.

“When I got that letter from you,” Arthur says, “I held it tight against my chest. Over my heart.”

Travis’s breathing quickens.

“I kept reading it. Over and over. But I—” he bursts into laughter. Breaks off, wheezing. “I _can’t_. It’s too late. The way things are now…it wouldn’t be fair to you.”

“Why wouldn’t it be fair? What do you mean?”

Silence.

“Arthur. Arthur, say somethin’ to me. What’s wrong?”

“Oh god, Travis.” His voice breaks. “Everything. Everything is wrong.” He starts to laugh again. “I don’t know what’s real. And I—I’m afraid. That I’m going to do it again. I can’t stop thinking about how it felt when I killed them. When I—” his breathing flutters softly in Travis’s ear. His voice slides into a whisper. “When I hunted the last one down and pulled the trigger…it felt…oh god, Travis…I think about—about the bullet going in, and everything going still inside me, and—”

“Tell me where you are,” Travis says.

“I’m dangerous.”

“I don’t care. Tell me. I’ll come to you.”

“You shouldn’t try to help me. You’ll get hurt. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Let me worry about that. Just tell me.”

Silence.

“Arthur.” His fingers tighten on the phone. “I’m not giving up on you.”

A slow inhalation. “I’m—at a phone booth. Down the street from where Kenny’s Music used to be.”

“I know the corner. Be there in fifteen minutes.” He hangs up and runs down to his cab, leaving his half-finished bowl of macaroni and cheese on the kitchen table.


	8. Chapter 8

Fifteen minutes later, Travis’s cab pulls up to a phone booth on the corner. 

Arthur stands behind the rain-streaked glass, his hair and jacket drenched. Travis’s heart flips over in his chest.

_It’s him. It’s him._

On the phone, earlier, Arthur warned Travis that he was dangerous. But he doesn’t look dangerous. He looks like a half-drowned kitten. Big, forlorn eyes stare out from a pale, haggard face. He seems to have lost even more weight since Travis last saw him. His clothes hang off of him.

Travis stares through the window. Arthur’s eyes meet his through two layers of glass. 

Travis gets out and stands in the downpour. Arthur hesitates for only a second before stepping out of the phone booth. They remain still, looking at each other, for a few second. Travis is almost afraid to move. Afraid Arthur will dissolve like a mirage.

He opens the passenger-side door. “Here. Get in out of the rain.”

Arthur fidgets, folding his hands together in front of him. Rain hammers down, dripping from his hair and jacket. Droplets roll down the grooves in his face. “I…”

Travis steps forward and firmly takes his hand. “It’s all right.”

Arthur looks down at their joined hands. His fingers curl around Travis’s, tightening. Travis tugs, and Arthur steps forward. He slides into the passenger seat of the cab and buckles his seatbelt.

Travis gets behind the wheel, shuts the door. But doesn’t pull out into the street, not yet. The wipers cut through sheets of rain. He studies Arthur. He thinks about asking, _Are you all right?_ But it seems like a stupid question. “You’re shivering.”

“I don’t feel cold.” He leans his head back against the seat. A breathless little laugh escapes him. “I don’t feel anything, right now.” He pushes his hands through his wet hair.

His speech is a little slurred. That worries him.

Travis turns the heat on full blast. He takes Arthur’s hands in his again, squeezes them. His skin is cold, like clay.

“Let’s get you someplace warm. Get you out of those wet clothes, too.” He pulls out into the street. “I’ll take you back to my place. How’s that?”

“Sure.” He smiles, as if at a private joke. “Not like I have anywhere else to go.”

“What do you mean?”

“Home is…stressful, right now. My mother and I had a fight. A bad one. There was a lot of shouting. She started to cry. She kept saying, ‘You’re not my Happy. Give me back my Happy.’”

“Happy?”

“It’s what she calls me.” He stares straight ahead. "I felt awful. I hate making her cry."

He considers asking what the fight was about. Probably better to leave it alone. “You don’t have to go back there tonight, if you don’t want to.”

Arthur doesn’t respond. They drive in silence for a few minutes.

Travis should have a lot to say, shouldn’t he? Over the past week or so, all he’s been able to think about is finding Arthur again. Talking to him again. Yet now, his mind is a blank. He opens his mouth and nothing comes out. “It’s good to see you,” he says at last. “Really good.”

Arthur’s hands twist together in his lap. “I’m going crazy, Travis.” His voice is strangely calm. Fuzzy. Detached. “My mind is coming apart. I’m having such…bad ideas.”

"Wanna talk about it?"

Arthur shakes his head.

“When’s the last time you ate anything?”

“I—don’t know. I think I had some cereal yesterday.”

“Slept much lately?”

He shakes his head again.

He’s hungry, cold and worn out. They’ll take care of that first. They can deal with the rest later.

* * *

In Travis’s apartment, he waits while Arthur takes a hot shower and changes into a dry set of clothes. He emerges from the bathroom, wearing a yellow t-shirt and sweats. His eyes are a little more focused, now. He sits on the couch and folds his hands in his lap. “Thank you. For the clothes.”

“No problem.” Travis offers him a blanket. Arthur drapes it around his shoulders like a cape, gathers it around himself, huddling on the couch. He’s stopped shivering, at least.

Travis hovers awkwardly nearby. “You like pizza? I could order a pizza.”

“Okay.”

“Sausage all right?”

“Sure.”

Travis picks up the phone. He glances at Arthur. Clears his throat. “This place has pretty good wings, too. If you like wings.”

“Just pizza is fine.”

Travis orders, then hangs up the phone. “Want something to drink? I got beer and Coke.”

“Coke.”

Just as well—Arthur probably shouldn’t have alcohol on an empty stomach. He’s a little out of it, already. Travis fills a glass with Coke and brings it to him, setting it on the coffee table. Arthur stares at it for a few seconds, then picks it up—his hand is shaking noticeably—and sips.

Travis sits in the chair across from him, watches as he takes small, tentative swallows from his glass.

_Say something._

“So…uh…”

“You said you were in the papers,” Arthur says in his soft voice. “That they called you a hero.”

Travis winces. “Ah—yeah. That.”

“What did you do?”

“Long story.” This isn’t really what Travis wants to talk about. He prefers not to think about New York, when he can avoid it. But Arthur asked. He’ll give him the short version. “There was a kid,” he says, “in a bad situation. Being used by some very bad men. The worst kind of scum.”

Arthur freezes. “You mean…”

“Pimps. I couldn’t leave it alone. I had to do something.”

Arthur slowly sets his glass down. His breathing echoes through the silence. “You saved him? The kid?”

“Her. I mean, yeah, kind of. After I…cleaned up the place…the police showed up and got her out of there. Took her back to her family.”

Arthur stares at Travis with a strange expression.

He remembers the way that Betsy looked at him, the last time they ever saw each other. A sort of coy, soft admiration—a stark contrast from the contempt in her eyes after their disastrous first date, or the fear when he barged into her office, later. Back in New York, after he woke up from his coma, a lot of people looked at him with that admiration. Their faces radiated a warmth that he'd never experienced, before that point. Seeing someone he wasn’t.

This is…different, somehow. Arthur gazes at him with a focused, rapt intensity, lips slightly parted. His long lashes flick a few times. His wide eyes hold an over-bright shine. They’re a little wet.

It’s not admiration, exactly. It’s the way a drowning man looks at a life-raft. It’s the way Travis himself probably looked at Arthur when he first saw him—that blaze of color in the gray. It’s the way the damned look at salvation.

But it’s an illusion.

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” Travis says. “What I did—it wasn’t good.”

Arthur’s brow furrows. “You just told me that you rescued a child from a horrible place. How can that not be good?”

“I did it in the worst way. And for all the wrong reasons. I know that sounds like bullshit, like I’m just tryin’ to be modest or something, but if you saw how it really went down, and everything I did before that…you wouldn’t be looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Just…that way.” 

“So what happened?”

Travis rubs the back of his neck.

He doesn’t want to tell Arthur this story. But he owes him the truth.

“I slaughtered them. The pimps. Showed up in the middle of the night and gunned them all down. It was a bloodbath. She was there, when I did it.” He stares at the wall. “I killed the last one right in front of her. She was begging me not to. Crying and begging me not to kill him. I shot him anyway. She’s gonna see that scene over and over in her head for the rest of her life. And I knew that. But in that moment, I didn’t care.”

Arthur just listens.

“I _did_ want to help her. But that night…it wasn’t about saving her. It was about killing them. Punishing them. It was about hate.”

Maybe Iris is better off now. He hopes so. But Travis isn’t her savior. Now, he’s just another figure in her nightmares.

It didn’t have to happen that way. He should’ve just sent her the money to escape on her own and then offed himself, like he originally planned. Though of course, shooting Palantine was also part of his plan, then. If you could even call it a plan. He was such a fucking mess. After the botched assassination attempt, he couldn’t stand the idea of dying without _doing_ anything. Just another drowned rat washed up in the gutter. No, that wasn’t good enough for him. He had to go out in a blaze of fucking glory, had to be a big swinging dick spraying fire and bullets like a machine gun. He had to be _noticed._ Because everything he did was about him, even if he pretended otherwise. 

“It’s like I told you before,” he says. “Being the hero isn’t much like it is in the movies.”

Arthur studies his face, his expression unreadable. He absently rubs the back of his wrist. Travis notices a small, round scar there. He can see another peeking out from under the edge of his sleeve. “Until the night on the subway...I'd never done much of anything with my life," Arthur says. "Good or bad. You saved someone. Even if it went wrong. And you served in the war, too. I was too busy being crazy.” 

“Yeah, well. The war was a joke.” He wants to believe that it all meant something. That there was some greater purpose to his pain. But he’s long since stopped believing that. “There’s not much to admire about my life. I admire you, Arthur.”

His brows knit together. “You do?”

“I realize we don’t know each other too well. But Gary told me a little about you. How you were, at work. Quiet and decent, he said. There’s a dignity to living that way. Even if not many people see it. You’re a nice man. You’re respectable. You’re clean.”

His face tightens in a pained smile. “I’m not clean.”

“You are.”

Arthur’s smile fades. He looks down. Soft, unsteady breathing echoes through the room.

“Arthur? You okay?”

“You’re…confusing me,” he whispers.

“I wasn’t trying to do that.”

“It’s all right.” Arthur smiles again, without looking up. “I just…" He sighs. "I wish I had met you sooner.”

Travis isn’t sure what to say. He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

There’s a buzz at the door. He stands. “That’s probably the pizza.”

He buzzes the delivery guy in, pays him, and sets the box on the coffee table. He grabs a pair of plastic plates from the kitchen. “Dig in.”

Arthur eats in small bites, nibbling the edges of a slice. Like a mouse. He starts picking the sausages off and setting them aside in a little pile.

Does he not like those? Travis asked if sausage was okay and he said yes, but maybe he was just being polite. 

Arthur adds another sausage to the heap.

“Are you gonna eat those?”

“Do you want them?”

“Sure. If you don’t.”

Arthur pushes the plate toward him, and Travis eats the pile of sausage.

Arthur takes another delicate bite from the crust of his piece, then slowly sets it down. “Do you hate yourself, Travis?” he asks in his gentle voice.

Travis goes still. His chest seizes up. It’s not the sort of thing people usually just _ask._ It takes him a few seconds to find his own voice. “Yeah,” he replies. “I do. Doesn’t make me special, I realize. It’s just another drug. Just another kind of selfishness.” 

“Do you hate _me?_ ”

“You know I don’t.”

“We aren’t that different, though.”

“You never went lookin’ for trouble.”

“I still made mistakes. If I hadn’t been so stupid, if I hadn’t lost my job—”

“It’s not the same.” His voice comes out almost angry. “You didn’t get on that subway intending to do what you did. It was self-defense.”

“Not the last one.”

“He would’ve put you in prison, if you’d let him live. It wouldn’t have been a fair trial—not with who they were, and who you are. And it’s not like he was an innocent bystander. He and his buddies attacked _you._ You did what you had to.”

“I didn’t have to do any of it.”

Travis shakes his head. “You were forced to make a choice. Nothing _happened_ to me. I did it all on my own. And all I’ve done since then is wallow in self-pity. That’s all I’ve ever done. My problems are all in my own head. I shoulda just put a bullet in there a long time ago. Done myself and everyone else a favor. I can’t—” he stops. Breathes out. Bites the tip of his tongue. Even now, he can't stop bitching and moaning. Like he's some kinda fuckin' victim.

Arthur slowly picks sausages off another slice of pizza. Lays them in a little heap. “I did a lot of gigs at children’s hospitals, when I was a clown,” he says. “Magic tricks. Balloon animals. Things like that. Sometimes I just talked to the kids—made jokes.” 

Travis wonders why Arthur’s bringing this up now. But he says nothing.

“There was a little boy,” Arthur says. “He was very sick. He’d been in the hospital for most of his life. And by the time I met him, he was just…tired. Tired of hurting. I kept trying to make him smile, with my act. Telling silly stories. But even when he did smile, I could tell he was just doing it for my sake. The last time I saw him there, he told me that he wished he was dead, because all he did was cause trouble and make people sad. He apologized for not smiling.” Arthur stares at his shoes. “I didn’t know what to say. So I just told him that I was happy to have met him. I said it was okay if he didn’t smile. I still wish I could’ve made him laugh, even once, but…I understood. Sometimes, forcing yourself to smile just makes it hurt more. And sometimes there’s no reason for any of it. None of it was his fault, or anyone's. We’re all just…born into what we are.”

Travis’s throat feels stiff. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t want you to hate yourself. That’s all.”

“I’m not a kid with cancer. I’m a murderer. There’s a little bit of fucking difference, there.”

Arthur says nothing. Just sits there, still cocooned in his blanket, wet hair hanging down around his face.

“Sorry,” Travis mutters. "I'm sorry." He rubs his forehead. “The kid…what happened to him?”

“He died.”

Travis swallows. The tightness in his throat is still there. “Are you really happy to have met him?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, the only sound is their soft, mingled breathing.

Arthur meets his gaze. “I’ve hated myself for as long as I can remember, you know. I had thoughts, sometimes, that I must be a bad person. Because everyone else seemed to hate me…and there had to be a reason for that. Didn’t there? Maybe I deserved it. Maybe they could smell the evil in me. And when...when I saw those men die and it felt _good…_ when I realized that I _liked_ killing them…that just seemed to prove it. That I had always been bad, deep down. Like I was just waiting for an excuse. A voice keeps telling me that I should just give in. Because if I stop caring, if I let go of everything, I won't hate myself anymore. And I try to hold on, but it's hard, and it _hurts_. So much.” 

“Arthur…”

Arthur sniffles. A tear slips down his cheek. He wipes one sleeve across his face. 

“Hey.”

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“Hang on. I’ve got some tissues—” he fumbles through his pocket, pulls out a few, then stands and moves toward him. He starts to hand them to Arthur, then—on impulse—dabs at Arthur’s face himself, wiping away his tears.

His nose is leaking a little, too. Travis hands him another tissue. Arthur blows his nose, eyes tinged pink.

“You aren’t evil,” Travis says.

“I feel like I am. It feels like sludge inside me. I can taste it in my throat.” 

Travis doesn’t know what to say to that. He hasn’t known Arthur for very long. He can’t say with any authority what’s been happening inside his heart and mind. But looks at Arthur now—at the way he sits, hunched in on himself, the vulnerability and pain etched into every line of his face—he just can’t see an evil man.

Travis has seen real evil. It’s snide and unrepentant and unyielding. It feels no remorse.

He stands awkwardly as Arthur wipes more tears from his face. “You wanna get some sleep?”

“I don’t know if I can. I haven’t slept much lately.”

Slowly, Travis sits next to him. “Watch some TV, then? Might help you relax.”

“Maybe.”

He turns on the TV, hands the remote to Arthur, who flips through the channels until he lands on the Murray Franklin Show. The brightly colored curtains open. The audience whoops and applauds as Murray strolls across the stage.

“You like this guy?” Travis asks.

“He was my hero, growing up. I wanted to be a comedian, because of him.”

Travis has always found Murray kind of smarmy and insufferable, personally. But he just nods. “People always ask me if I’m related to him.”

“You do look a little similar. I noticed that.”

“I’m not. Related, I mean.”

They stare at the screen, keeping the volume down low. But Arthur doesn’t seem to really be watching. His gaze keeps straying to Travis.

Arthur starts to reach out toward him, hesitates, and pulls his hand back, folding it in his lap again.

Travis’s heartbeat quickens. Was Arthur about to reach for his hand? Or is he imagining things?

It's always so hard to tell. So hard to know if what he sees is real.

"So you've been watching Murray since you were a kid?" Travis asks.

"Yes. My mother and I have always watched together." Arthur grips his blanket with one hand, twisting the fabric. “You know, sometimes, I…” He laughs stiffly. “God. I don’t believe I’m telling you this.”

Travis waits.

“I would have these fantasies. About him calling me up onstage at his show.”

“I think every kid had fantasies like that. Being famous.”

“Oh, I kept fantasizing even as an adult. It only really stopped after what I did on the subway. But it was never about the audience, or about being famous. Not really. It was about him. Being seen by him.” Arthur stares at the TV screen. “It’s silly. Pathetic.”

“What did you think about?”

“I would imagine him saying nice things to me. H-hugging me.” He looks at Travis tentatively from the corner of his eye, as if searching for judgment in his face.

“Nothin’ wrong with that,” Travis says.

“I would imagine it in a lot of detail. Like…the way he smelled. His cologne.”

“Yeah?” Travis whispers.

“It’s weird. I know.”

“It’s not that weird.”

“Sometimes…” Arthur swallows. “Sometimes I would just think about him putting his hand on my face. On my cheek.”

Travis’s heart is beating harder and faster than normal. He keeps his gaze fixed on the screen, not really seeing it. Just a bright, glowing square with movement inside.

“Don’t listen to anything I’m saying,” Arthur murmurs. He rubs his temple. “I’m tired right now. My head’s a mess.”

“Do you want me to do that?” Travis asks.

“Wh…what?”

“Do you want me to put my hand on your face?”

Arthur's breathing quickens. “Yes,” he whispers. "Yes. I would like that."

“Look at me.”

Arthur’s face turns toward him. His eyes are wide. There’s a soft, helpless look there. Bewildered and hungry.

Travis slowly raises his hand and cups Arthur’s cheek in one palm.

Arthur’s breathing hitches. His eyelids flutter.

Travis holds his face gently. Cradles his gaunt, deeply lined cheek, like something precious and fragile. Arthur’s eyes slip shut. His lips are parted. Travis strokes Arthur’s cheek with his thumb, wiping away a bit of moisture from under his eye, feeling the soft, loose skin there. A tiny sound escapes Arthur's throat. The TV is still on, muted audience laughter and applause in the background.

Arthur raises one hand and lays it over Travis’s. Presses it there, against his face.

Outside, there’s a gunshot, followed by deep voices shouting. Arthur gives a start, his face jerking away from Travis’s hand, toward the window. The wail of sirens echoes through the night. Arthur clutches the blanket.

“It’s all right,” Travis says. “We’re safe here.”

He wonders if that’s really true. He wonders if anywhere is safe.

"Sorry. I'm a little jumpy." Arthur sits, fidgeting, gaze downcast. One hand drifts up to touch his cheek, where Travis’s hand rested a moment ago.

"You okay?”

“I just…” His voice cracks. “I don’t know what this _is_. What we are.”

He's not so sure about that, himself. He knows his own feelings. He could say it now: say, _I'm in love with you_. But it's hard to say if it's really about that for Arthur. He's so starved for touch, for simple human affection. Maybe he would respond to anyone showing him a little bit of kindness. “If you want, we can keep it simple. I can be your friend." He hesitates. "I don't have a lot of experience. With being friends, or with...anything else. I mean, I've been with a few women. But they never stuck around long. Somethin' about me, it seems to scare women off."

Arthur’s teeth catch on his lower lip. “I’ve never…” He trails off.

Travis sits very still. Just looking at Arthur through his peripheral vision. “Never?”

"Never."

A strange feeling washes over Travis. But somehow, he isn't surprised. There is something untouched about Arthur.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Arthur says. “And I don’t want to get you mixed up in my problems.”

“Don’t worry about that. I can handle myself.”

“I think pretty soon, I’m going to end up back in the hospital. And this time, I don’t think I’ll get out. If it’s just going to end like that, then getting to know each other…it will just make it harder. For both of us.”

“What makes you think you’re gonna end up back in the hospital?”

“I just know,” he whispers. 

Travis decides not to push, for now. They’ve got time. He hopes. “Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it.”

“I’m already scared about what’s going to happen to my mother. I don’t want to hurt anyone else. I don’t want to make things…complicated. For you.”

Travis thinks about his life in Gotham, up until now. Working. Coming home. Drinking, watching TV. Every day a Xerox copy of the last, each one a little more faded. If that’s a simple life, then a simple life is overrated. “By all means,” he says, “complicate me.”

Arthur’s breathing quickens a little. “Why?” he whispers. "Why me? Why didn't you just...run away?"

Travis wonders how to answer that. Wonders how much to say. Maybe he should just tell him. If he's right about the connection he has with Arthur, the truth won't scare him off. And if he's wrong, it's better to know now.

“Do you believe in the soul?” Travis asks. 

“I don’t believe in heaven or hell. If that’s what you’re asking. I think this is it.”

“I mean—do you believe there’s a part of someone, way down deep, on the inside, that makes them who they are? Like a core?”

“I don’t know. I guess…maybe.”

“I can see people’s souls sometimes," Travis says. "Once in a while. In little flashes. The night I met you, in the tunnel…you turned toward me, and I got a look at yours. It was like looking into one of those—those tubes, with the colors inside. A kaleidoscope. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Since that moment, I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. About you. I fell in love with your soul.”

Muffled voices drift from the TV—the only sound. He glances over at Arthur and sees the glazed, deer-in-headlights look on his face. Like he just realized he’s sitting next to a complete fucking loony. Well, the words have been said. 

“I know how it sounds,” Travis says.

Arthur wets his lips. “You really saw that?” His tone is difficult to read.

“Yes. And I don't think I imagined it. Not completely. Because I know you now, at least a little. And it matches what I saw.”

Arthur clamps his lips together. He starts to giggle. Presses a hand over his mouth.

Arthur laughs when he’s anxious, Travis remembers. He drops his gaze. “I won't do anything. I just wanted you to know.”

Silence.

Shit. 

Travis's stomach sinks. He clears his throat. “Let’s, uh. Let's get some sleep, okay? In the morning we can talk more. If you want.” He stands. “You want the bed or the couch?”

A few seconds of silence pass…then Arthur whispers, “Couch.”

Travis nods.

Arthur shuts off the TV.

Travis stands. “I’ll get you a pillow.” He grabs a pillow and an extra blanket from the bedroom and hands them to Arthur. “’Night.” He turns away.

“Hey,” Arthur says.

Travis freezes. Turns toward him.

Arthur rises to his feet. He takes a step forward, leans up and gives Travis a kiss on the cheek. A quick, soft press of lips against skin. “Goodnight.”

Travis stares, dazed. Thunderstruck. His hand drifts to the spot on his cheek where Arthur’s lips touched. He can't move. Can't speak.

Arthur sits down on the couch. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah," Travis hears himself say, as if from a distance. "See you.”

Arthur curls up on the couch, under the blankets.

Travis retreats into the bedroom, his thoughts still reeling. He touches his cheek again, still feeling that little kiss.

Sweet, he thinks. So sweet.

For several minutes, he just stands next to the bed, watching the snow drift down outside the window. More gunshots echo in the distance. More angry voices. More sirens.

The world is on fire and everything is collapsing. But it doesn’t matter. None of it can touch him.


	9. Chapter 9

A few nights ago, Arthur had a dream.

The city was on fire and he was sprawled on the hood of a car, wearing his paint, with a crowd of clown-masked men and women gathered around him, touching him all over. Dozens of hands caressing him. Unbuttoning his shirt, sliding under it, over his ribcage, his waist. Hands running over his exposed skin, almost reverently. Unbuckling his belt. Fingers—some gloved, some bare—probing into every private space, stroking every inch. Arthur shivering in blind ecstasy.

_Here is your king. Adore him._

If he were awake, being touched by strangers like that would no doubt terrify him. He would freeze up like a startled rabbit. But in the dream…

He woke feverishly aroused, early in the morning, while Penny was still asleep. He didn’t even go into the bathroom to jerk off; he rolled over and thrust against the couch, pushing into the crevice between the cushions until he came all over the inside of his pajama pants.

Since killing those three men on the subway, his dreams have become darker and sweeter; in them, he gives himself over to his strangest and most secret urges. Sometimes it’s with Sophie, the pretty girl down the hall. Sometimes, with those faceless strangers in the masks.

But mostly, it’s Travis.

Now—laying on the couch in Travis’s living room—he thinks about that warm hand on his face. Those gentle brown eyes that seemed to see and forgive every particle of his soul.

Gunshots crack outside. Screams, whoops and hollers echo through the streets. Arthur stares at the ceiling. His hand slips down and tentatively touches the growing bulge in his pants. His breathing quickens. It feels wrong, touching himself here, on Travis’s couch. What if Travis comes in and sees him?

But then, maybe he wouldn’t mind.

_He wants you._

He’s not mistaken about that. Is he? He heard the flutter in Travis’s breathing when Arthur pressed that soft, tentative kiss to his cheek.

And Travis is right down the hall.

It’s so hard for Arthur to believe that anyone _could_ want him that way, but the way Travis looked at him…touched him…

_He said he’s done it before. He knows how._

Arthur closes his eyes and rubs the aching swell. A shiver runs through him.

He knows he’s living on borrowed time. Once his meds run out, his fragile sanity will crumble beneath his feet. He sees his mother's tearstained, reddened face, hears her shouting, _You're not my Happy_. Home is not home anymore. All roads lead back to Arkham. This world—the outside world—is just a fleeting dream. But maybe it can be a nice dream, while it lasts.

He wants to try. At least once, before his own light dies. To experience being wanted, desired, touched, filled. Loved.

_What if it hurts?_

But then, doesn’t everything?

* * *

Travis is wakened by a knock at the door. He rubs at his eyes. “Whozzere?” he slurs.

“It’s me,” says a soft voice.

“Arthur?” He props himself off the bed with one arm. “You okay?”

“Yes. May I come in?”

He blinks a few times, disoriented. “Sure.”

The door creaks softly open. He hears Arthur’s quiet breathing.

“Hang on,” Travis mutters. “I’m gonna turn on a light.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Huh?”

Arthur moves closer, in the darkness. Travis hears the faint creak of mattress springs. Feels the dip as Arthur’s weight settles into the bed. A hand touches his chest, light as a cat’s paw.

Too close. Too sudden. His adrenaline spikes, a tingling rush of heat over his brain, and he grabs Arthur’s wrist out of sheer reflex.

Arthur squirms. His breathing changes, and Travis realizes he’s gripping him too tight. He releases his wrist. “Sorry. Uh. What’s going on?”

“This is what you want,” Arthur whispers. “Isn’t it?”

His voice sounds…different. Travis is still half-asleep, his mind foggy.

“I dunno what—”

Arthur touches his chest again, rubs lightly. Warm lips brush his neck.

And all at once, in record time, he’s rock hard. His cock stands at attention.

Whoa, he thinks. Okay.

Wait.

Is this really happening? Is he dreaming? He opens his mouth to say something—what, he’s not even sure—but only air comes out.

Arthur presses against his side. His forehead touches Travis’s. Warm breath tickles his lips. “It’s all right,” he whispers.

He’s so close. His voice, his touch, is soft. Inviting. But this is the absolute last thing Travis expected. Arthur’s so damn _shy._ He’s not the sort of person who would just…do this. Is he? “Arthur,” he says, struggling to focus, “this is—kinda sudden.”

Arthur stops. Pulls back. “You don’t want to?” There’s a wobble of insecurity in his voice, now. A hint of fear. Fear that he might’ve made a mistake, that he might have ruined everything. Travis recognizes that feeling all too well.

He remembers, in a flash, Arthur whispering, _Never._ Travis didn’t misunderstand that, did he? Arthur’s a virgin. Which makes this even weirder.“I want to,” he says. “It’s just—are you okay?”

His eyes shine in the darkness, like an animal’s, catching the faint light from the hallway bathroom. “I’m fine.”

Then Arthur’s lips are on his. A faint groan escapes Travis’s throat, and his thoughts short out. His brain is a TV screen filled with static.

It’s been a while since Travis has kissed anyone. It takes his mouth a moment to remember how to do it. Slowly, his arms slip around Arthur, pulling him closer. Tightening. Arthur’s tongue flicks against his, tentative and bold at the same time.

Arthur’s hand slides down, over Travis’s stomach, then lower, brushing over the elastic waistband of his boxer shorts, the bulge beneath. He groans again.

This is really happening. Isn’t it? Travis sorta feels like he’s dreaming. But if it’s a dream, he wants to stay asleep.

Arthur smells nice. He must have washed his hair in the shower earlier. There’s a faint whiff of Travis’s shampoo. Cheap drugstore stuff, but it’s fresh and soapy and pleasant—especially now, mixed with Arthur’s natural scent.

Travis slides his hands under Arthur’s shirt, over his thin back, feeling the ridge of his spine, the shift of muscles beneath his skin. Arthur’s hair hangs down, brushing his cheek. Travis’s lips find his throat. He can feel Arthur’s heavy breathing, his pulse. He fists one hand in his shirt, clutching, clinging to him in the darkness. _So warm…_ God, it’s Arthur and he’s _here,_ in Travis’s bed, touching and kissing him and—

And—

The last of his hesitation slips away and he drags Arthur’s body tight against his, devouring his mouth with kisses. He kisses his neck, his collarbones. He pins him down against the bed and fumbles at his shirt, panting. He presses his fever-hot face into the hollow between Arthur’s neck and shoulder as he tugs Arthur’s pajama-pants and briefs off.

_I need this,_ he thinks. _I need this so much._

Arthur writhes against him, whining low in his throat. Travis feels something rigid and hot rubbing against his stomach, and he reaches down. There’s another brief flicker of hesitation.

He’s never actually touched another guy’s cock before. He’s seen plenty of them—in locker rooms, in barracks—but looking is one thing, handling another. And it’s been so long since he’s been with _anyone._

Arthur grips his wrist and guides his hand down.

And there he is. Travis feels the tightness of aroused, sensitive flesh, the throb of blood within. In the dark, his sense of touch is amplified. He is hyper-conscious of the _aliveness_ of Arthur under his fingertips. Arthur’s whole body shivers against his.

He trails his fingers slowly along the underside of Arthur’s erection, down to the base, where he can feel the tickle of hair. And beneath that, the texture of his balls, already full and tight. Experimentally, he traces a small circle on their surface, and Arthur’s hips twitch. He makes a funny little sound. Like a hiccup, almost.

There’s a benefit, he thinks, to knowing the equipment. Travis has had plenty of experience jerking off. This can’t be that much different. Can it?

Still, he doesn’t feel prepared. He’s still reeling from that chaste, soft kiss on the cheek just a few hours ago, and now he’s fondling Arthur’s balls. There should be some steps in between, shouldn’t there?

Arthur’s hips arch up, pushing into his hand.

Travis keeps stroking him. Kissing him. Arthur’s lips are slick with wetness, slightly swollen. Travis can feel that little groove in his upper lip, that slight, almost imperceptible break in continuity. He pulls back to catch his breath. “What do you want?” Travis whispers hoarsely.

Arthur makes a little questioning sound.

“I, uh.” Travis clears his throat. “I never been with a man before, so…” _Neither has he, you screwhead._ Still, Arthur was the one who came in here. He must have some idea.

There’s a pause. A click in Arthur’s throat as he swallows. “I don’t know. I thought you would know.”  
  


Despite his initial assertiveness, it seems, he’s expecting Travis to take the lead. “I mean…I guess I could try some things. You want me inside you? Or—”

A short, sharp giggle escapes Arthur’s throat. “Okay.”

Travis frowns. His voice sounds funny. “Arthur, are you…drunk?”

“No.” Arthur tries to kiss him again. Travis can’t taste or smell any alcohol on his breath, but something’s off; Arthur’s movements are growing more desperate. Frantic, almost. Travis pulls back, covers Arthur’s mouth with one palm. Soft breath feathers against his skin. Slowly, he lowers his hand.

“I’m sorry if I’m not good at it,” Arthur says. “Kissing. I haven’t done it much.”

“You kiss fine. Just…give me a minute. I need to think.” He rubs his forehead.

“What's wrong?"

He fumbles for the words. He can feel Arthur trembling. He’s been trembling this whole time. Travis took it for excitement, desire. Maybe it is. But he’s suddenly not so sure. He touches Arthur’s face in the darkness. “You’re shakin’ like a leaf, Arthur.”

“Travis, please…” His voice breaks a little. “I don’t care if it hurts. Please. Just this once—”

“I’m gonna turn on a light.” Travis reaches out, fumbling in the darkness, and switches on the lamp. Arthur blinks and scrunches his eyes shut. He’s curled up semi-fetal on the bed, still in the yellow t-shirt that Travis lent him. His pajama pants lay crumpled nearby on the floor.

It occurs to Travis that he himself is wearing nothing but his boxers, that he still has a hard-on tenting the front of them. It’s already fading, though.

Arthur’s face is downcast, his breathing unsteady.

Travis takes Arthur’s face between his hands. His eyes are still squeezed shut. “Look at me.” After a half-beat, he adds softly, “Please.”

Arthur’s eyelids open a crack, though he’s still squinting against the sudden lamplight. Travis can barely see his eyes through that tangle of lashes. But he glimpses the shine of tears. Arthur laughs again, a choked sound, and pulls his face from Travis's grip.

His stomach tightens. “Arthur,” he says, “I didn’t bring you here because I expected this. You don’t owe me anything. I don’t want you to do this because of a reason like that.”

“I know.” His voice is small and quiet in the darkness. “It isn’t like that.”

“Then why?”

“I just want it. Is that so strange?”

“No, it’s just…I didn’t expect it. You aren’t acting like yourself.”

“You barely know me. How would you know if I’m acting like myself?”

He doesn’t, he guesses. But that’s sort of the issue. “I just…” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I don’t feel right about this.”

Arthur lowers his gaze. "I understand.” His voice is softer now. Subdued. “I made you uncomfortable. I'm s-suh...sor...” His face contorts. He sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, hands twisting together in his lap, and grimaces as though he's in pain. Another jagged spurt of laughter shoots out, and he claps both hands over his mouth, trying to muffle it. The laughter tapers off into coughs and croaks.

“Hey.” Slowly—cautiously—Travis reaches out. Puts a hand on his back. The muscles convulse and tighten; he's struggling to hold in his laughter. “It’s okay.”

“I should go,” Arthur whispers behind his hands. “I made a mistake.” He starts to stand.

Travis catches his arm. He freezes. “Please. Don’t leave. I’m not upset. Can I—can I hold you?”

Arthur says nothing. His gaze remains fixed on his feet.

“I just wanna put my arms around you for a minute.”

Slowly, Arthur sits back down.

Cautiously—like he’s trying not to startle a wild animal—Travis wraps his arms around Arthur and pulls him close. Arthur remains tense. Stiff. His eyes squeeze shut again. "Tell me what's going on in your head," Travis says quietly.

“I just...wanted to know what it felt like,” he whispers. “Before…” He trails off.

Arthur’s voice from last night echoes in his head, telling Travis that he’s going to end up back in the hospital soon. “Before what?"

Arthur's expression goes taut. He turns his head away. “Nothing.”

It’s obviously not nothing. But if he pushes too hard, he senses, Arthur will clam up and withdraw. He's been hurt. Many times. Both emotionally and physically. Even if Travis doesn’t know all the details, he recognizes that fear all too well. He has to be careful. Gentle. He releases Arthur from his embrace and takes his hand instead. Arthur’s fingers twitch and curl slowly around his—almost involuntarily, it seems. “You don’t have to tell me,” Travis says. “But it might be something I can help with.”

For a few heartbeats, Arthur is silent. He bites his lower lip. Then he lets out a slow sigh, shoulders sagging. “It’s not something you can fix. And if I tell you about it, you’ll _try_ to fix it, and…I don’t want that. I don't want you to get hurt.”

“How do you know I’ll try to fix it?”

Arthur doesn’t answer. Maybe that’s a dumb question. Maybe Arthur can already see the architecture of Travis’s mind, his soul, its endless hunger for salvation and idiotic quests to rescue other souls in despair. Playing the cowboy, playing the knight. Travis has seen Arthur’s core, after all; maybe it’s impossible to look into another person’s soul without exposing your own.

Arthur has decided he doesn’t want to be rescued. Travis recognizes the grim set of his jaw, the hollow determination in his eyes. It’s the face of a man who’s already decided on the suicide-path. He came to Travis as a doomed soldier would come to a mistress, for one last bit of comfort, before dying in battle. Once a man has decided on that path, it's hard to sway him from it. Travis should know.

_Damn it._ Travis runs a hand over his face. Takes a breath. “I think we should get some sleep. Talk more in the morning, when our heads are clearer.”

Arthur nods but says nothing.

Travis hesitates…then leans forward and kisses him softly, chastely, on the forehead. The air hitches in Arthur’s throat. His eyelashes flutter.

Travis touches his cheek, traces a groove there with his thumb. “You need anything?”

Still, he doesn’t reply.

“Arthur?”

“May I…” He clears his throat. “May I spend the night here? With you? I won’t try anything again,” he adds quickly. “I just don’t want to be alone right now.”

Travis’s heartbeat quickens. “Sure,” he murmurs. “You can stay.”

* * *

Arthur must be exhausted. He drifts off almost immediately. Travis lays awake a while longer, watching him sleep, listening to his gentle snores. Moonlight filters in through the window, outlining his face, the tumble of his hair. The bed's much warmer, with Arthur here. They're sharing a blanket. But they don't touch. Travis moves one leg, just a little, until his knee is pressed against Arthur's knee. He focuses on that single point of contact, feels it resonate throughout his body.

_Do you ever learn, Travis?_

He tried to force his help on Iris, even as she insisted she didn’t need his help, and look how that turned out. Now Arthur is in some kind of trouble—maybe it has do with the subway killings, maybe it’s something else entirely—and has told Travis that it’s something he can’t fix. And Arthur, unlike Iris, is an adult, not a child being manipulated and used by adults. Even if he’s decided that his path will end in death or prison, who is Travis to intervene?

But if he _doesn’t_ try to help Arthur—if he stands back and lets him walk that path—he’ll regret it for the rest of his life. He’s certain of that.

Arthur stirs. A tiny crease appears in his forehead as his thick brows draw together. He whimpers. Bad dreams?

Travis reaches out and slowly tucks a loose curl behind Arthur’s ear. “It’s all right,” he murmurs. “You’re safe here.”

Arthur stirs again. His breathing quickens. Still dreaming. Travis thinks about shaking him awake.

Then Arthur twitches. The furrow smooths from his brow, and the tight muscles of his face relax. He smiles in his sleep. A soft, almost inaudible gust of laughter escapes him. Seems like his bad dream just turned into a good dream.

Travis wonders what he’s seeing.

* * *

He wakes to the touch of sunlight on his eyelids. Arthur isn’t in the bed. He feels a lurch of panic…then hears movement from down the hall, and relaxes. He’s still here.

Travis throws on a shirt.

He finds Arthur in the kitchen, washing dishes. The TV in the living room is on too, the volume turned down. The news is on, showing a garbage-strewn street with shattered store windows boarded up. The camera cuts to a line of protestors and a line of cops facing off against each other, shouting. The confrontation quickly dissolves into an all-out brawl. An announcer drones: “The mayor has ordered a city-wide nine o’clock curfew, and residents are advised to exercise caution when traveling. Several major roads have been blocked—”

“Hey.” Travis approaches.

“Good morning.” Arthur smiles without meeting his eyes. He keeps scrubbing at a crusted-on stain on a plastic plate. “Thanks for letting me stay last night. Sorry I was so emotional. I’m feeling a lot better now.”

Travis stands motionless, off-balance. He didn’t dream that whole thing, did he? Or does Arthur not remember? 

He looks closer, sees the strain in Arthur’s smile, the tension in his facial muscles. His eyes are a little glazed. He remembers. But he’s trying to pretend that none of it happened. 

“Should I make some coffee?” Arthur asks.

“Uh. Sure. It’s the cabinet, there.” Travis watches Arthur spoon grounds into the filter. “So…”

“I could make breakfast too. If you like. Do you have any pancake mix?”

“I think there’s a box in the back of the pantry.” He wonders if it would be better to go along with the pretense. But no. There’s no way. “Arthur—”

“I’m sure my mother’s calmed down by now. I can go home today.” He opens the pantry and pulls out the mostly empty box of pancake mix. “I feel a little silly now, making such a big deal out of it.”

“About last night…”

He freezes, holding a plastic mixing bowl. His lips part, quiver slightly, and press together. Slowly, he sets the bowl down. “I want to apologize for the way I acted,” he says, his voice stiff. “It was shameful. Coming into your room, crawling into bed with you and…pawing at you like that…like a brute...”

"It wasn't like that." Travis takes a few steps closer, closing the distance between them. He reaches out to touch Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur flinches. He pulls back. 

“Every time I come here I end up acting like a crazy person," he mutters. "I fall apart and make a spectacle of myself and—”

“Stop.” Travis grips Arthur’s arms tightly. Arthur falls silent. They stand there, in the kitchen, facing each other. 

Arthur pulls free and turns away. For a moment, he busies himself with pouring pancake mix into a bowl and adding water, stirring it up into a pale, lumpy mixture. “I wasn’t thinking clearly last night,” he says. “But I know that isn’t an excuse. I was being selfish. Even now I'm being selfish. Making you reassure me after what _I_ did. I just...I want you to know that I know it was wrong.”

“I wanted it."

Arthur freezes.

“I wanted it more than I’ve wanted anything for a long, long time. I want _you_ , Arthur. I l...I like you. A lot. But I don’t wanna rush this. I’ve screwed up this kind of thing too many times. Let me do this right. Let me take you out to dinner first, at least. Or a movie, or something. Anything. It's your first time. Let me make it a special day.”

Arthur turns and stares into Travis’s eyes. A small furrow appears in his brow. “You’re asking me on a date?”

“Yeah.” Heat rises up his neck, into his face. “I am. Let’s start over. Will you have dinner with me? Today?”

A spectrum of emotions, too many to sort out, swims across his face. “I want to. But…”

Travis’s heart sinks. He’s going to say no. “But?”

Arthur’s teeth press into his lower lip again. Travis can see the gears in his head turning.

“I’ll take you anywhere in Gotham,” Travis says. “I don’t know too much about nice restaurants, but you tell me the address and I’ll take you there. Or if there’s anything else, anything special you want to do…I mean, doesn’t have to be dinner. Whatever you want.”

Another pause. “It'll sound silly,” Arthur whispers.

He's saying yes. Travis’s heart jumps up again, like a dog hearing the word _walk._ He takes Arthur’s hands in both of his and holds them. “Whatever you want," he says again.

Arthur lifts his chin a little, an odd sort of determination in his eyes. “The Amusement Mile. I want to go on the Ferris wheel. With you.”

Travis must admit, he didn’t expect that.

He knows where the Mile is, of course. He’s seen the wheel rising above even the skyscrapers of Gotham: a dim, hulking shape, like a dinosaur or a movie monster, sketched against the sky. Does it even run anymore? He tries to remember if he’s ever seen it moving. Always looked like a death-trap to him, ancient and rust-eaten. But if that’s what Arthur wants… “You ever been on it?”

“Once. As a kid. I haven’t gotten a chance since then.”

“You liked it?”

“I did. It was amazing.”

“Never been on a Ferris wheel, myself.” Truthfully, Travis has never been crazy about heights. Even looking off the top of a tall building makes him edgy. But he can handle it. Probably. He’ll just avoid looking directly down. “I’ll take you there today. We’ll have a day at the park.”

“I would like that. Very much.”

“It’s a plan, then. You, uh—you need to call your mom, or anything?”

The light fades from his face. “I don’t need her permission.”

“Yeah, but I mean, just so she doesn’t wonder where you are. If you don’t wanna, that’s fine.”

He lets out a small sigh. “I guess I should make a stop back home and try to smooth things over with her. Though I’m not looking forward to it.” He slides his hands free and picks up the spoon. “Let’s have breakfast first.”

* * *

Arthur makes pancakes. Travis is amazed at how perfectly circular and golden they are. Like pancakes on TV. He watches as Arthur adds a thick pat of butter to each stack and pours syrup over the top in an amber cascade.

They sit, eating. Travis’s stomach keeps fluttering. He’s got a date. With Arthur.

He takes a bite of pancakes. _Is this really a good idea?_ Everything feels so unstable, right now. And Arthur is still a wanted man. But then, he’s probably safer here or at the park than he would be back home. Easier for the cops to find him, at home.

“I’ve thought about telling her,” Arthur murmurs. 

Travis freezes, a forkful of pancakes halfway to his mouth. “About those guys, you mean? On the subway?”

“Yes.” He’s barely touched his own breakfast. “I don’t know what she would do, though. I’m afraid.”

“Up to you.” Travis hopes he doesn’t tell her, though. That’s a complication they don’t need. “Can I ask you somethin’, Arthur? You still got that .38?”

“I left it at home. I know that I should get rid of it. I don’t know why I haven’t.”

“Makes you feel safer?”

“Yeah. I guess so.” He takes a swig of black coffee. “I’m weak. I know that.”

“No. I get it. That gun might’ve saved your life on the subway. No way to know how far those assholes would’ve gone if you hadn’t fought back. It’s hard to let go of something that saved you. But now, having it is dangerous. You’re already in the papers. The cops are gonna be looking for a clown. They might come around asking questions. And if they do, you can’t have the gun.”

“I know. I’ll get rid of it as soon as I get home. I promise.” He says the words meekly, gaze downcast. Like a contrite student being scolded by a teacher.

They should have a plan, Travis thinks. Arthur needs to have his story straight, in case the cops do question him. They can talk about that later, too.

But for now, he wants to take Arthur to the Amusement Mile.


	10. Chapter 10

The park has seen better days. Everything looks a little rundown, a little faded. The piney shrubs lining the parking lot are autumn-brown. The rust-flecked front gates resemble the entrance to a haunted house. The words AMUSEMENT MILE are spelled out in Gothic-looking letters on the metal sign above; the last 'E' is crooked, leaning over in a drunken stupor.

Travis glances over at Arthur. He was quiet—detached—during the drive here. On the way, they stopped at his apartment so he could talk to Penny and try to patch things up with her. He wasn’t up there for long. Travis isn’t sure how it went. When he asked, Arthur just said, “About as well as I expected.”

Arthur stares off into space now, slouched in his brown jacket, hands buried in his pockets.

“You still in the mood for this?” Travis asks. “We don’t have to do it today, you know. We can wait.”

Arthur gives him a vague smile and says, “I want to.”

“Okay, then.”

They approach the admissions booth.

“Twenty dollars gets you an all-day pass for the rides,” says the bored-looking teenage girl at the counter. “Games are extra.” She glances at the military patch on Travis’s jacket. “Oh, uh. There’s a dollar discount for veterans and seniors.”

Travis hesitates briefly, then slides two twenty-dollar bills across the counter and says, “For both of us.”

She hands them their tickets and says, “Through the turnstile.”

Travis strides forward, Arthur close behind. “You could’ve gotten a dollar off,” he says. 

Travis shrugs. “I don’t talk about my military service unless I have to. Don't like bringin' it up.”

“Sorry.”

“No. It’s fine. I don’t mind talking about it with you. Just…in general.” It always got awkward. People either wanted to thank him and shake his hand, which made him uncomfortable, or...well, he got a long-winded sermon once from a glassy-eyed, greasy-looking hippie in New York about the evils of war and CIA brainwashing programs and FBI wiretaps and a whole bunch of other shit. Travis didn't need any convincing that the whole mess was fucked, but he also didn't need a lecture from some guy who smelled like he'd showered in bong-water. 

Arthur glances at his jacket. The patches. “I don't mean to pry, but...if you don't like people knowing, then why—?”

“Why do I wear this thing? Good question.” He half-smiles, then shrugs. “Feel like it’s part of me, I guess.”

Inside the park, music plays and colored lights blink. Children’s laughter pierces the air. The Ferris wheel towers above it all. Travis can’t remember the last time he’s been to a real amusement park. He’s not sure he ever has, come to think of it. His parents took him to the circus once when he was a kid. There was a local fair with a few games that came around every year. That’s about it.

He looks over at Arthur, who’s staring at the park with an almost childlike wonder in his expression.

“Is it like you remember?” Travis asks.

“Yes. Well…maybe I remember it being bigger. But I was little then, so. Everything seemed bigger.”

“You wanna try out some of the games first? Or go straight to the wheel?”

“Let’s just walk around.”

As they walk, Travis feels an urge to reach out and take Arthur’s hand. But he doesn’t, of course. That would be asking for trouble.

Every so often, in New York, he would see guys walking hand in hand. Usually the sort of guys who wore too-tight shirts and pants. Travis never said anything, never gave anyone any trouble about it. If they hailed his cab he stopped for them, just like he would for anyone else—didn’t matter to him. Still, he often felt a twinge of judgment. _Degenerates,_ he would’ve called them, if only in his head. He called a lot of people degenerates, back then. He looked out at the world and saw sickness and rot everywhere.

There are some people who deserve judgment—he still believes that. The sort of scumbags who would pimp out a kid. Those who prey on the weak. But if he’d asked himself why he put men who held hands in that same category, he wouldn’t have had a good answer.

And of course, on some level, he was thinking that about himself, too. There were parts of himself he saw as dirty.

He curls his empty hand into a loose fist.

He realizes Arthur has stopped a few paces behind him. He turns to see Arthur staring, transfixed, at a huge, blue plush dog hanging from a shooting-game booth.

“You like it?” Travis asks, quietly enough that no one can overhear them.

Arthur’s ears redden. He blushes so easily. “Oh. I was just looking.”

“I can get it for you.”

“You don’t think I’d look strange, carrying around a toy like that? I’m a grown man. People would stare.”

“Up to you. But I won’t let anyone give you trouble about it.”

Arthur folds his hands in front of him. He fidgets. “Well…we _are_ at an amusement park. It’s not that strange, I guess.”

Travis steps up to the booth and says, “How much?”

“Twenny-five cents,” says the bored-looking attendant. “You get three shots.”

“And what do I have to hit to win the dog?”

“All three targets. Dead center.”

Travis pays the quarter and aims.

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

The attendant blinks a few times, taken aback. Feeling a little show-offy, Travis twirls the gun. He thinks about pretending to blow smoke from it, then decides that would look stupid. He puts it back in its plastic holster.

“She’s all yours,” the attendant says, pulling the dog down from the hook.

They walk away from the booth with Arthur carrying the plush toy. It’s big enough that he has to wrap both arms around it, like it’s a child. Its long droopy ears bounce with every step he takes. "That was amazing," he says.

"I've had a lot of practice."

They pass a laughing clown with a red-and-white striped outfit and poofy orange hair. He’s busy making balloon animals for a group of kids. Arthur glances at the clown, then looks away. “Can we get some cotton candy?”

“Sure.”

“I should probably pay for it. You paid for the game, after all—”

“Don’t worry about it, Arthur. I got it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m the one who asked you out. I’ll take care of everything. Whatever you want, just ask for it.”

Arthur looks at him with soft eyes, lips slightly parted. There’s a yearning there, in his expression, a need—not sexual, exactly. Something else. And beneath it, a faint shadow of pain. His arms tighten a little around the stuffed dog.

Again, Arthur’s voice echoes in Travis’s head: _Pretty soon, I’m going to end up back in the hospital._ Travis thinks, again, about asking what’s wrong. Trying to get him to talk. But no—it’s not the right moment. They need a quiet, private space for that. Then he’ll probe—carefully. Try to find a crack in Arthur’s armor and slip through.

It feels almost predatory, thinking about it in those terms. But he has the sense that whatever’s going on is urgent. That Arthur is living on borrowed time. If Travis waits too long—if he just stands back, hoping Arthur will open up eventually—then by the time he does, it might be too late.

Arthur’s ears redden again. “You’re looking at me funny.”

“Am I? How?”

“I don’t know. Sort of…hungry.”

Is that how he looks, when he’s worried about someone? “Sorry. I’ll try not to.”

“I mean…it’s not bad, exactly,” Arthur murmurs, gaze lowered. “It just makes me feel…”

“Feel what?”

His voice drops to a whisper. “I don’t know. Naked, I guess.”

Travis’s pulse quickens. There’s a stirring in his groin. _Easy._ He can’t start getting a hard-on now, in the middle of the park. “Cotton candy’s over there,” he says, pointing, and starts to walk.

Arthur follows. “Were you thinking about last night?” he asks, very quietly.

“No.”

“What, then?”

He considers for a moment, and decides to just tell the truth: “I’m thinking about how to get inside your head.”

Arthur stops. He gulps. A tiny giggle escapes him. He hugs the dog tightly, head bowed. “I told you, Travis,” he says in that soft, almost inaudible voice, “this isn’t something you can fix. Just leave it alone. Let’s have a nice day. Please?”

Travis looks away. Reluctantly, he nods. “I won’t bring it up again.” Not today, anyway.

“Thank you.” He resumes walking.

Travis buys him a stick of puffy, pink cotton candy. They sit on a bench, side by side, as Arthur eats small mouthfuls of the sugary cloud. Gradually, he relaxes. He offers it to Travis, who takes a bite. The sugar melts on contact with his saliva, dissolving into a sticky, cottony mass on his tongue. A gaggle of laughing teenagers walks past, and Arthur tenses, flinching a little, drawing closer to Travis...but the kids barely glance at them. After a moment, he relaxes again.

Directly in front of them is a carousel—a little old and faded, like everything else in the park, but still colorful. Calliope music plays and lights twinkle as it goes around and around, animals with poles stuck through their guts moving up and down in a hypnotic dance. There’s a bear, a dolphin, a unicorn, a gaudy gold dragon, a silver-blue wolf…

“You wanna ride?” Travis asks.

Arthur hesitates, then shakes his head. “I’m enjoying just watching it.”

There are a few kids on it, but most of the animals are riderless. A snarling golden lion glides past, paint flaking off its muzzle, half-reared up as though preparing to pounce on an adversary.

On impulse, Travis stands. He leaps up onto the moving carousel, catlike, and lands in a crouch. Straightening, he grips the lion’s pole and extends a hand. The carousel glides around, and Arthur’s startled face disappears from his view, then reappears. “Come on,” Travis calls. His hand remains outstretched.

A smile spreads slowly across Arthur’s face, and a soft gust of laughter escapes him. He stands, leaving the stuffed dog on the bench, the half-eaten stick of cotton candy leaning up against it. The next time the lion glides around, he takes Travis’s hand and jumps up onto the moving platform, stumbling a little. Travis grips his waist, steadying him, and a faint, almost inaudible squeak escapes Arthur’s throat.

For a grown man, Travis thinks, he makes the girliest little sounds. Travis doesn’t mind though. He kind of likes it.

_Would he squeak like that if I—_

He shuts that thought down.

“We aren’t supposed to get on the ride that way,” Arthur says, a little breathless.

“No one’s watchin’.” The park seems to be mostly staffed by distracted teenagers. This place has a reputation as a lawsuit-magnet, and he can see why—seems like the sorta park where people get injured doing stupid shit like climbing all over the rides—but for now, they can take advantage of that freedom. “Pick an animal.”

Arthur looks around, still clinging to Travis for balance as the carousel whisks them around. After a moment, he steps carefully over to a dolphin, its silver body poised in mid-leap, and slides into its saddle. He grips the pole in both hands, watching wide-eyed as the world flies past.

Travis straddles the lion. He’s been on a carousel once before, hasn’t he? As a little kid. He rests a hand atop the lion’s carved wooden head and stares at Arthur’s back. The animals move around and around, up and down, but at the same time, they’re perfectly still, frozen in space and time. The lion’s always snarling, paw half-raised. The dolphin is always leaping out of a carved wooden wave. They are captives to the poles anchoring them in their spot. But if the poles were removed, they would just collapse.

Travis imagines a metal pole going down through the top of his own head, through his brain and into his body. He has always felt moved by forces beyond his control, by unseen mechanics. He can’t seem to break free, no more than this lion can shake the flaking paint off its mane and step off the platform.

Which is the soul, he wonders? The animal? Or the pole?

He watches Arthur gripping the pommel of the dolphin’s saddle. Watches his hands slide, almost sensually, up the solid, undecorated metal tube which rises from the creature’s back. His body arches upward a little, knees gripping the dolphin’s sides, pressing himself up against the pole like a dancer in a strip club.

The soul is not the animal or the pole, Travis thinks. It’s the rider.

Arthur looks over one shoulder and catches Travis’s gaze. And he smiles. It’s an unexpected smile—bright, mischievous, with a dark and knowing glint in his eyes. Travis stares, transfixed.

Arthur and the dolphin seem to be one creature, a chimera, legs melding seamlessly into an arched tail. A merman, a selkie. Something not of this world.

He thinks again of that moment in the tunnel, when Arthur first appeared to him like a brightly colored spirit.

But he’s none of those things. Travis knows. Arthur is a man like himself. A vulnerable, struggling human being. Flesh and blood.

The awareness of that—of Arthur’s simple humanity, his existence as a creature in this world—makes Travis want him all the more.

* * *

Once they get off the carousel, Arthur finishes his cotton candy, picks up his dog and says, “Let’s go on the Ferris wheel now.”

Travis glances up at the behemoth towering over them. There’s an uncomfortable twinge in his stomach. His gaze focuses on the topmost car, hanging suspended there, a small, fragile thing in space. He looks down, a little dizzy. “Sure. That’s why we came here, right?”

“Travis?” A hint of uncertainty creeps into Arthur’s voice. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

* * *

The Ferris wheel grinds to a halt. “Next,” the attendant says.

As they step into the yellow-painted cabin, a memory flutters through Arthur’s mind. He is eight years old, and Penny is holding his hand. He’s practically vibrating with excitement at the thought of being so high up, far above Gotham, far above everything that can hurt him. In the clean, untouched sky, up in the clouds, like the angels.

He doesn’t believe in angels anymore. But he still likes the idea of soaring through the clouds. He licks his lips, still sticky and faintly sweet with the residue of cotton candy.

He sits by Travis’s side now, close enough that their legs almost touch. The wheel grinds and creaks. The cabin sways a little as they lift into the air. Arthur watches in fascination as the ground drops out beneath them. Gotham’s Ferris wheel is one of the largest in the country..third-largest, maybe? Big enough. A smile breaks across his face. There’s a little flip in his stomach.

He can still hear the music below—the bright and jaunty tunes from the game booths, the calliope of the carousel. But the sounds grow fainter as they rise. A sense of peace settles over him. He and Travis are alone, sealed off in this private space. Protected, yet free. He thinks about the sight of Travis riding the wooden lion, his face set in a small frown of concentration, as though he were trying to remember how to have fun.

He rests a hand on Travis’s knee. “This is nice,” Arthur says. "Isn't it?"

“Yeah,” Travis says. His voice sounds a little funny. His breathing is noticeably unsteady.

Arthur looks over at him. The color has drained from his face, and a sheen of sweat gleams on his forehead. His eyes are clamped tightly shut. “Travis? What’s wrong?”

He swallows, gripping the metal bar that rests across their laps. “I, uh. I’m not so good with heights.”

Arthur stares. The Ferris wheel is still moving slowly but steadily upward. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s not that bad.” His pulse drums visibly in his throat.

“Travis—I’m sorry. I had no idea—”

“Don’t apologize. I wanted to do this. Just enjoy it. I’ll be fine.” He opens his eyes a crack, then quickly shuts them again. He sways a little, like he’s dizzy.

“Hold my hand,” Arthur says quietly. He reaches out, and Travis’s fingers clench tight around his. His palm is slick with sweat.

The cabin rises higher, higher. The people below them dwindle to toys. The park is spread out under their feet, and beyond it, he sees the gray haze of the city. Gotham, too, looks like a city of toys. Travis lets out a tiny, almost inaudible moan.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Nah,” Travis whispers hoarsely. “I’m fine. This is fine. It's fine.”

Arthur looks around. The cabin is enclosed, with windows on the sides and only the front open. They can’t be seen from above or below, and they’re too high up to be seen by the people on the ground. They have privacy, at least.

Arthur gives his hand a squeeze.

Up high, like this, the wind feels much stronger. The cabin rocks and creaks.

“Oh. Jesus." Travis squeezes himself deeper into the seat, his back rigid.

“This wheel’s been running for over fifty years. It’s stable," Arthur says. "This is probably the one ride in the park no one's ever been injured on, actually."

“I’m bein’ stupid,” Travis murmurs. “I know. It’s just a Ferris wheel. But the fact that it’s so slow—kinda makes it worse. I didn’t think I’d get this bad. Can’t even open my eyes. It’s pathetic—”

Arthur leans in and kisses his cheek, tastes the salt of his sweat. He hears his quiet intake of breath. “It’s okay,” he says. “You can keep your eyes closed. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“Are we—we at the top yet?”

“Not quite.”

Beads of sweat glisten on Travis’s forehead. A breeze rustles his hair. His eyes remain squeezed shut.

“Would it help if I hugged you?” Arthur asks.

“Maybe. I dunno.”

Arthur pulls the stuffed dog off his lap. He leans over and wraps Travis in a hug. His heart is beating so hard. So fast. Travis clutches him like a drowning man clutching a lifesaver.

It’s strange, Arthur thinks, being the one to comfort him. Travis has always seemed so strong. At the same time, it feels entirely natural. He reaches up and strokes his hair. It’s short, sleek and soft. Like fox-fur. “Just pretend we’re in a boat on a lake,” Arthur says.

“Yeah?”

“It’s very safe. It’s a small lake. The water’s not deep.”

They’re at the very top now. A gust of wind hits the cabin, and it sways, joints creaking like branches about to snap.

“Shit,” Travis says.

“Just the boat rocking a little.”

They hang, suspended. Above them is nothing but empty, ashen sky. The wind keens softly. The people below are specks, crawling over the park like ants over a piece of bread.

Travis opens his eyes again, just a crack. He flinches. His eyes roll back, going blank and white, and he goes limp, slumping in Arthur’s arms. 

“Travis?”

The wheel begins its slow descent. Travis gives a start, eyes fluttering open. “What—what happened?”

“I think you fainted. Just for a few seconds.”

“I didn’t faint. I don’t faint.”

“Okay.”

He closes his eyes again. “Just tell me when it’s over.”

As they near the ground, Arthur pulls back, untangling his arms from Travis, and says, “We’re almost there.”

The cabin stops. The bar lifts, and the door swings open. Arthur steps out, taking Travis by the hand, cradling his stuffed dog in the other arm. Tentatively, Travis opens his eyes and follows. His legs wobble. As they walk away from the wheel, he seems to steady a little.

Arthur wants to keep holding his hand, but he forces himself to release it. “Travis? Are you—?”

“I’m okay,” he mutters. “I feel pretty stupid, though.”

“It’s not stupid. I just wish I had known.”

“I wanted to go up there with you. Thought I could control myself.” He sticks his hands in his pockets, gaze downcast. “Guess I kinda ruined it for you.”

“No. You didn’t. It was an amazing view. I'm glad I got to do that. I've wanted to for a long time, but with work and taking care of Mom and everything, and money always being so tight...I just never had the chance. Thank you.”

The tension eases out of Travis’s shoulders. "You're welcome." He starts to reach for Arthur’s hand, instinctively, then lets his arm fall awkwardly to his side. “You, uh. You hungry? They got hotdogs.”

* * *

By the time they walk back to the cab, it’s dark. They get in, buckle their seatbelts. But Travis doesn’t start the engine.

“Thank you for today,” Arthur says, hugging the dog in his lap. “It was wonderful. The best day I’ve had in a long, long time.”

“Even with me being a sissy on the Ferris wheel?” Travis asks, half-jokingly.

Arthur takes his hand, kisses the knuckles, and presses Travis’s palm against his cheek, almost fiercely. “I wouldn’t have asked you to do that, if I’d known,” Arthur whispers. “But knowing that you _wanted_ to, for me…that you tried, even though you were scared…it means a lot. Just please—if I ever ask you to do something that scares you again, tell me. Please. I don’t want to put you through anything like that again.”

Travis cradles his cheek. “It’s not a big deal, Arthur.”

“Yes. It is. I know what anxiety attacks feel like. I know they’re awful.” He holds Travis’s palm there, against his face, with both hands. “Please don’t be afraid to tell me about those things.”

Travis looks into Arthur’s eyes. In the dim light, they’re soft pools of blue-gray. “Same goes for you, then.”

A shadow slips across Arthur’s face. He lowers his eyes.

“I won’t push you. But I’m here. If you want to talk.” Slowly, he leans in and kisses him. Soft. Undemanding.

Arthur’s eyes slip shut. A tear trails down his gaunt cheek, down the path of a groove.

Travis pulls back and just looks at him for a moment. If he _does_ push, he senses, he might be able to break through. Might be able to dig the truth out. But he feels, just as surely, that pushing too hard, too fast, will hurt Arthur. Damage the trust he's placed in Travis. They're balanced on a razor's edge. Risk either way. But instinct tells him to hold steady. He feels something within Arthur that wants to open up, wants to unburden himself. He's aching to tell Travis everything. Keeping it in...that hurts him, too. A little more time, the gentlest push, and the truth will spill out of him. It's ironic; Arthur needed no encouragement to crawl into Travis's bed. Travis knows that all he has to do is ask, and Arthur will give his body. But now, he's intent on a different kind of seduction.

He thinks about Arthur's warm arms around him on the Ferris wheel. That gentle voice in his ear.

_Let me save you_ , he thinks. _Please._

“You want me to take you home?" Travis asks. "Or…”

“Can we…go back to your place?”

The blood thrums in Travis’s veins. “Sure. Sure we can.”

* * *

They drive in silence through the tangled streets of Gotham. Travis thinks about turning on the radio, but decides against it. He glances at his watch. There’s a citywide curfew, he remembers. Was it nine or ten? Probably nine. Well, they’ve still got fifteen minutes to get home.

Ahead, he hears laughter and shouting, and a dull roar. A bright orange glow emanates from around the corner. He looks for a place to turn. But they’re on a one-way street.

“Travis?”

He slows, creeps forward. Just beyond the corner, he can see licking flames. There’s a car on fire, blocking the road.

“Hang on.” He throws the cab in reverse and backs away…then slams on the brakes. A row of four men in clown masks stand behind them. One wields a crowbar. Another has a knife. 

Travis’s hands tighten on the wheel. If these guys were just after money, the easiest way out would probably be to hand them his wallet. Not much cash in there anyway. But this doesn’t feel like a robbery. The way they stand there, motionless, in a row...there's something creepy about it. He stares ahead at the blazing car. A few other masked figures are leaping and dancing around it, pumping their fists into the air.

One of the four men in back circles around to the front and stares at him through the windshield. “Get out of the cab,” he says, his voice muffled by glass.

The muscles in Travis’s neck tighten. “What is this?” he asks, keeping his voice low and steady.

“I said get out of the cab.” He pulls a gun.

He looks over at Arthur’s wide-eyed face, then back at the clown standing in front of them.

The blood pounds behind his forehead, a slowly rising red tide.


	11. Chapter 11

Travis’s hands squeeze the steering wheel as he stares into the barrel of the gun. He loosens his grip, with an effort, and clamps down on the rising tide of rage.

Easy, he thinks. He and Arthur are outnumbered, outgunned. They can’t fight their way out of this. “You want money?” Travis tries to keep his voice low and calm, but there’s a tightness to the words. A hard edge. “I’ll give you money.”

The clown mask grins at him through the window. Eyes glint through the holes. “We don’t want your fucking money,” he says, his voice muffled by glass.

“What, then?” he asks, stalling for time. “You want the cab?”

“Shut up.” The man’s breathing rasps behind the mask. “Just get out.”

If they step outside the vehicle, they’ll lose what little protection they have; they’ll lose any chance to escape. _If I threw the cab in reverse and floored it…_

If he does that, the men behind him will scatter, if they have any survival instinct. With a little luck they could get away. But it would be a gamble. The gunman might fire at them. They could be injured or killed. But that also might happen if they get out of the cab.

_Fuck._ He has to make a decision within the next few seconds, or he’ll lose his chance.

Ahead of them, the burning car roars and crackles—a beacon in the night. The shadowy figures keep moving around it. Even from this distance, he feels the heat pressing against his face. Behind them, the trio of masked people crowd closer to the back of the cab. They’re eerily silent.

He glances at a nearby apartment building; a face briefly peers at them through a window far above, then disappears behind a curtain.

Someone must have called the cops by now, he thinks. But who knows when they’ll show up. _If_ they’ll show up. His gaze darts to Arthur, who hasn’t said a word since they stopped. His face has gone blank. His wide eyes reflect the dancing flames.

Travis takes a breath. “Listen. I don’t know what this is about, but—”

“I don’t have to listen to you. I’m _done_ listening. We’re done. You think I won’t use this? My whole life, I’ve put up with your bullshit.”

“What? Do we know each other?”

The man laughs flatly. Like it’s a joke. “No.”

Travis’s gaze moves back to the barrel of the gun pointed at his face through the glass. His jaw tightens.

_“Get out or I shoot you in the fucking face!”_ The gunman’s throat shines with sweat.

“All right,” Travis says. “All right, take it easy. I’m just gonna unbuckle my seatbelt, here. I’ll move slowly. No funny business. We just want to go—”

Arthur leans toward him and reaches across his chest, aiming something at the window. _Bang._

Travis gives a start. A bullet-hole appears in the window, a spider-web of cracks spreading out from it. The man falls backwards.

He doesn’t think. Travis’s body moves instinctively as he throws the cab into reverse and slams on the gas. The cab shoots back with a screech of tires on pavement. The masked figures behind them scatter, shouting in alarm. One of them doesn’t move fast enough; the cab clips him. He falls to the pavement and rolls.

Travis gets a glimpse of the gunman on his back, motionless, before they veer around a corner.

“Holy shit,” he mutters.

Arthur brays out a laugh. He clutches the .38 against his chest with both hands. His head is bowed, hair hanging in his face.

Arthur had the gun the whole time. No—he didn’t have it last night. Did he? Did he take it from the apartment when he went up to talk to Penny? Travis thinks about asking him. But right now that's the least of his concerns.

He turns another corner and looks at the bullet-hole in the window. There are a few flecks of blood on the glass. Not much. Clean shot to the head, he thinks. Probably instant death. Never knew what hit him. “You okay, Arthur?”

“I did it again,” Arthur says in a wobbly voice. “I—I k— _ha-ha-ha!”_

“You did what you had to.” Think, think, think. What now? They were seen. By all the other clowns. Though they don’t seem like the type who would go to the police. Would they?

One thing at a time. “You should ditch the gun,” Travis says.

“Where?”

“Just wipe it off and throw it in a dumpster. I’ll find an alley.”

“Okay.” His rapid breathing echoes through the cab. “I’m sorry, Travis.”

“Sorry? You mighta just saved my life. Both our lives. Don’t know what that fucker wanted, but I don’t think it woulda ended well for us.”

The gunman’s voice echoes in Travis’s head: _I’ve been putting up with your bullshit my whole life_.

They didn’t even know each other, but Travis felt the rage emanating from those words.

Maybe he’s got no room to throw stones, considering the things he’s done—the things he’s tried to do. Palantine’s face floats through his head. Travis didn’t really know _him,_ either. A part of him still wants to tell himself that that was different. Palantine wasn’t a regular guy, he was a politician. He was the ruling class. But maybe this shit is all relative.

Doesn’t matter now. The man wanted to hurt them to settle some score in his own head. But he’s dead. And they’re alive.

_We’re alive._ The blood thrums in his veins, sings in his ears.

Arthur holds the gun tight in his lap. A low whine escapes him. His lips are clamped together, as though he’s trying to suppress another laugh.

“Arthur?”

He giggles. But there are tears in his eyes. “They were wearing my face,” he whispers. “This is all happening because of me. Because of what I did. You almost died tonight, because of me.”

“You didn’t tell them to do any of this.”

“But if I hadn’t killed those men on the subway—”

“Arthur.” His voice comes out sharper than he intends. “Don’t.”

Arthur flinches and lowers his head, like a kicked dog. His face is frozen in a pained grin. His eyes are wild, white-edged, his breathing rapid.

Travis lets out a tense breath and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. I’m not mad. We’ll—we’ll figure this out. Hang on.” He takes another turn, then another. He tries to stick to the backroads. Tries not to be seen.

There might be blood on the cab, where he bumped into that other guy—hard to say how bad he was hurt. He has a towel in the trunk and some rubbing alcohol. He’s cleaned blood and cum off the backseat before; he’s prepared.

He pulls into a narrow alley. A rat scuttles away. Travis opens the door and gets out. He grabs the towel from the trunk, holds a hand out to Arthur and says, “Give me the gun.”

Arthur hesitates. But only for a second.

He passes the gun to Travis, who wipes it down quickly with the towel. He studies it in the dim glow of a streetlight, turning it back and forth to let the metal reflect the light, checking for fingerprints. He gives it one last, quick wipe down, starts to shove it into the dumpster...and stops. This gun saved them. Getting rid of it feels almost foolish. But this is the same gun Arthur used for the subway murders. They can get a new one if they want; it's never difficult. Better not to have one connected to the crime. He pushes it into the garbage, under a soggy pizza box. He glances back at the cab.

The window will need to be replaced anyway. Might as well just shatter the whole thing. A missing window will look less suspicious than one with a bullet-hole in it.

He picks up a brick, slides back into the driver’s seat, and smashes it into the window. The glass shatters outward and rains to the pavement. He keeps hitting the window until he’s knocked out all the glass, then he checks the cab all over, but he can’t find any blood. Good enough for now, he thinks. They need to get out of here.

He gets behind the wheel and pulls out of the alley. 

Arthur is still sitting in the passenger seat, hands folded meekly in his laps, staring straight ahead, his face slack. He’s checked out. Eyes empty, reflecting the red glow of a stoplight like wet pavement.

“Hey,” Travis says.

Arthur doesn’t respond.

Travis decides not to push. He’ll wait until they’re home. They’ll be safer at home. Then he can talk Arthur through this.

Jesus, he thinks. What a way to end the night.

He wishes none of that had happened. But in a weird way, he’s proud of Arthur. Proud that he took action when it was needed. Proud that he thought ahead enough to take the gun with him, even knowing that Travis would object.

He doesn’t think saying that would help, though. So he keeps his mouth shut.

* * *

During the drive back, Arthur floats. A dull buzzing fills his head, blotting out his thoughts.

When Travis says, “We’re here,” he looks up, blinking, rising from a trance.

Travis opens the door for him and extends a hand. Arthur takes it. Travis’s hand is warm. That detail penetrates the cottony fog around his brain. He focuses on the warmth.

The plush dog from the Amusement Mile still rests on his lap. He tucks it under one arm as he stands, and Travis leads him inside.

That moment keeps replaying over and over in his head: the masked man’s body jerking and falling backwards as the bullet hits him. The strangely soft and understated thump as his body hit the ground. As though Arthur merely knocked over a cardboard cutout of a person.

He tries to tell himself that the man might be only wounded, but he knows better.

_I shouldn’t have taken the gun with me. Why did I do that?_

But if he hadn’t…

“Arthur.” Travis gives his hand a little squeeze. “Stay with me.”

“Okay.” He swallows. They walk into the apartment building and up the stairs. “He didn’t want money,” Arthur whispers.

“No way to know what he was planning. But he was pointing a gun at us. You did what you had to.”

“Maybe he just wanted a hug.”

Travis’s brows furrow.

“I’m making a joke.” 

“Oh.”

They enter Travis’s apartment. He shuts the door. “Here. Sit down on the couch. Take it easy. You want anything to drink?”

Arthur shakes his head. He sits, the plush dog still in his lap. He closes his eyes and presses his fingertips against his eyelids. Red flowers bloom in the darkness. He presses harder, trying to push his eyeballs deeper into his head, into the dark cave of his skull.

Travis sits slowly next to him. He touches the back of Arthur’s hand, and Arthur gives a start. He lowers his hands, blinking.

“You all right?” Travis asks. When Arthur doesn’t respond, he looks away. “Dumb question. I know.”

“It was like the first time,” he says. “My body moved on its own.” He curls his hands into fists.

“You’ve got good instincts,” Travis says. “You’re a survivor. I felt that about you, the first time we met.”

“We don’t even know if his gun was loaded. Maybe he just wanted to scare us.”

“Anytime someone points a gun at you, you gotta assume it’s loaded. You can’t take that chance.”

“I guess so. I just—it all happened so fast. And now he’s dead.” He sways a little. “I feel funny.”

One hand rests on Arthur’s back, between the sharp wings of his shoulders. He rubs gently. “We’re okay now.”

Arthur nods. He giggles again. Clamps a hand over his mouth. 

He feels…

He’s horrified. Scared. All those things. But beneath it all…

He is very aware of his own body, of the muscles and tendons of it—of his brain, guiding his limbs in elegant partnership with his spine. He wants to dance. He wants to move and spin. He wants to run his hands over himself, feel the hollow of his stomach, the sharpness of his hips. A dark, sweet euphoria unfolds within him. 

There was a threat, and he dealt with it. The old Arthur would’ve just sat there, frozen, like an animal beaten into cowering submission. The old Arthur would’ve done whatever that man asked them to do, hoping he would be spared—hoping they would _both_ be spared. The old Arthur didn’t know how to do anything except obey and try to make himself smaller, to close off and cover his softest parts, like a pillbug curling in on itself.

But a different part of him has awakened. He tried to push it back down inside him after he killed those three men on the subway. He almost had it under control. But now it asserts itself again—a swan spreading black wings within his heart. Powerful and graceful. Elegant. Unashamed.

He wants to hide from it. But…god, it’s such a _relief._ The invisible chains have been broken. His body can move freely now. It feels like a sort of magic. Like he’s spent his life trudging around on two feet, only to suddenly realize that he can fly.

_You’re not my Happy,_ Penny sobs in his head.

He keeps pushing those thoughts away. But they keep bobbing back up.

“Hey.” Travis touches the back of his hand, cautiously. “You wanna talk?"

Arthur is still holding the plush dog in his lap. Absently, he strokes its head. “He didn’t even see me take the gun out from under my jacket. He was watching you. The whole time we were there, he barely even glanced at me. He…dismissed me.” His own voice sounds far away, detached, to his ears. Like he’s under hypnosis. “He looked at me once, and he saw a scared little man. He didn’t see a threat.”

Travis hesitates…then slowly takes Arthur’s hand in both of his. He rubs his thumbs over Arthur’s knuckles. “He was an idiot, then.”

Arthur looks at him, into his eyes. They stare at each other. Into each other.

Arthur leans forward, slides his hands into Travis’s hair, and kisses him.

He feels Travis stiffen with surprise and pull back. “Arthur—are you—”

Arthur’s arms twine around him, pulling him closer. He kisses him again. Travis’s lips remain tense against his for a few seconds, then slowly relax. A heady, drugged glow spreads throughout Arthur’s body. He feels like liquid, free-flowing and warm.

_I can do anything,_ Arthur thinks. _Anything at all. I’m awake now.  
_

Travis keeps kissing him. Soft at first. Then harder. Hungrier. Arthur opens his mouth and feels Travis’s tongue dip into him. His own tongue pushes forward to meet it.

He’s still not used to it—kissing. Travis doesn’t seem to quite know what to do either. He licks at the inside of Arthur’s mouth, then pulls back, flushed. “Is it, uh—is it too much?”

“Hm?”

“Too much tongue. I haven’t kissed anyone for a long time, so.”

“Don’t overthink it.” Arthur seals his lips to Travis’s again.

Travis’s hands touch his waist, tentatively at first…then they slide beneath Arthur’s shirt, over his ribs. He pushes Arthur to the couch, onto his back. The plush dog falls to the floor.

Reality intrudes in a cold flash. He just shot a man, and Travis saw him do it. They shouldn’t want this _now_.

_He likes it. Watching me kill._

The realization should scare him. It comforts him. Calms him.

Travis slowly kisses him, over and over—on his lips, his forehead, his neck. Arthur’s breathing quickens. In his head, he feels the jolt of the gun going off in his hand, sees the man fall backwards. The discharge of tension when the bullet sprang forth from its tunnel, like a tiger released from a cage, the way the warm metal jerked in his hand…

Travis kisses the spot beneath his ear, distracting him. He gasps a little. He feels that kiss down in the base of his spine, in the soles of his feet. His toes curl.

Travis kisses him there again, lingering on that spot. His teeth scrape over it.

There’s something good there. A nerve. Or maybe it’s the vulnerability. Waves of sensation ripple outward, like warm shock-waves. Travis strokes the spot with his tongue, and Arthur squirms a little, whines in his throat. It’s intense. Almost too much.

Arthur laughs again, a high-pitched, nervous titter.

Travis pulls back. “Bad?”

“No. I don’t know.” It’s hard to talk, right now. Hard to think. The laughter churns in his chest and crawls under his skin. He wants to laugh so long and hard. He wants to roar.

Travis’s teeth scrape lightly over his earlobe, and he squirms again. Laughs again. The old insecurity grips him, the old fear. _Stop it,_ he thinks at himself. _Stop._ Oh god. He’s going to ruin this. He gulps. “S-sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll try not to—”

Travis covers his mouth roughly with one hand, pressing his lips up against his teeth. Arthur’s eyes widen. Travis stares straight down into them, his face inches from Arthur's. “Don’t apologize.” There’s a frightening intensity in his expression. He looks almost angry. “Don’t you apologize for that, Arthur.”

Arthur feels a little jolt of panic. There’s a rush of heat to his groin. His cock twitches; his balls tighten; his eyelids flutter in surprise, widen...then lower as his vision loses focus, going soft and swimmy.

Travis sees the reaction, and something shifts in his face. His eyes turn smoky and dark, burning down into Arthur’s.

Then, slowly, Travis’s hand slides off his mouth, and his gaze shifts away. Arthur licks his lips, tastes the salt of Travis’s skin on them.

“You’re really a virgin?” Travis asks quietly.

“Yes.”

He seems to be struggling, hunting for words. “I’m a sick guy,” he mutters. “I have some sick ideas in my head. Some very dirty, sick ideas. I won’t do anything you don’t want, but—the way my mind is…I’m worried I might…”

“Corrupt me? Get me all filthy?”

“Something like that.”

“Would that be so bad?”

He swallows. “I don’t wanna…hurt you.”

Arthur lays a hand against his cheek. “Sweet boy,” he whispers.

Travis’s face grows warmer beneath Arthur’s hand.

“You're not very experienced yourself," Arthur says. "Are you?”

“I’m not too good at it. Being with people. I screw things up.”

“You’re scared? Of what I make you feel?” Arthur’s voice sounds different, even to his own ears. As though someone else is speaking through his mouth. Another being, rising up from the depths. “Or scared that you’re too broken for this?”

Travis opens his mouth, then closes it and lowers his head a little. 

The dark buzz of euphoria bubbles in the back of his skull. That other being within him, the black-winged thing in his heart, has blessed him with clear eyes and a steady voice. He doesn’t know if it will last. But he’ll ride this wave, now. He will see it through. “You’re different,” Arthur says. “You’re not broken. Listen to the voice inside you. You heard it, just now. Didn’t you? Listen.”

Travis’s gaze finds his again. For a long time—almost a full minute—they just look at each other in silence. Arthur has the sense that Travis is _reading_ him, in some way. Scanning him, his brain sifting through data and analyzing.

He’s on top of Arthur, straddling him. His hard dick brushes against Arthur’s stomach. Arthur arches his hips up off the couch, rubbing against him. Travis’s eyes lose focus; a soft, hungry groan escapes his throat, and he shivers. His eyes slip shut.

When they open again, that dark, hungry gleam is back. He reaches down to undo Arthur’s belt.


	12. Chapter 12

It’s happening, Arthur thinks.

For so many years, he saw sex and romance as a thing that happened to other people, as something that was closed off to him. When he was young, there was only rejection and disappointment. At some point he just stopped pursuing it, because he was convinced that no one could want him.

Or maybe he was afraid of being hurt. Afraid of giving anyone else that much power over him. 

Sometimes he tried to tell himself that he was fine on his own, that he was just one of those men who was _meant_ to be alone. After all, there were so many people in the world who seemed unhappy in their marriages and relationships, so many people out there ripping each other to shreds in the name of love. Maybe solitude, for all its aching discontent, was better. Safer, at least.

But he could never quite convince himself of that. Arthur is a romantic, at heart. More than anything, he’s yearned to be seen and cherished. To touch and be touched. To kiss and hold. 

And now, after a lifetime of being alone, he is about to let another person into his body. To connect with someone in the most intimate way possible.

Travis stands over him, hair mussed, the first few buttons of his shirt open. They are back on the Ferris wheel, empty space spread out beneath their feet. But this time there is no carriage. They’re suspended in empty space, about to plunge.

Arthur watches, holding his breath, as Travis undoes Arthur’s belt, then his own. Travis’s pants slip down. He tugs down his boxers too, and his cock emerges, flushed and straining from its thicket of dark hair, the flesh so tightly stretched it's almost shiny.

It’s bigger than his own. Definitely thicker. Will that really fit? 

Another laugh swells in his chest. He locks his jaws tight against it, but it leaks out through his clenched teeth. His chest hitches. “Hnn…ha-ha… _mmph._ ”

Travis’s shoulders tense. “Arthur?”

“I’m n-not— _ha-ha!—_ I’m not laughing at you.” He doesn’t want Travis to think that. Arthur knows what it feels like to be laughed at. “I’m j-just…” He closes his eyes for a few seconds, trying to collect himself. Trying to recapture that feeling of freedom he held a moment ago.

“Nervous?” Travis asks.

He gives Travis a pained smile. “Scared. I want to. But I'm scared.”

Travis hesitates, searching his face. There’s a vulnerability in his expression that Arthur isn’t accustomed to seeing there. “I’ll go slow. If it hurts, we can stop.”

“It’s not the pain I’m afraid of. I’m scared that I’ll disappoint you.” 

Travis’s expression softens. “You can’t disappoint me, Arthur.”

_That’s not something you can promise,_ Arthur thinks. But looking at Travis’s face, now, he almost believes him.

Travis lays a hand against Arthur’s cheek. For a moment, his palm just lingers there. “I’m going to undress you the rest of the way now,” Travis says.

After a few seconds, Arthur nods. He watches, holding his breath, as Travis undoes another button. Then another. 

Last night, when he climbed into Travis’s bed, they were in the dark. Now, they can see everything. There is no hiding. He is exposed.

He’s always hated his own body—the lack of muscle definition, the way his skeleton presses against his skin as though it’s straining to break free. He’s never liked looking at himself naked. When he does, he sees a ghoulish creature. And there are the scars…

Tentatively, he peeks up at Travis’s face.

His eyes are intent—transfixed—as he stares down at Arthur’s chest. One calloused hand slides along the lower edge of his ribcage, fingertips tracing the shape of those protruding bones. The touch is intense. Almost ticklish. Arthur squirms a little and bites down on the tip of his tongue. “Nnnn…”

His belt is unbuckled, but his pants are still on, his dick stiff against the fabric.

“No one’s ever touched you like this,” Travis says. “Before me.”

It’s not phrased as a question. But Arthur whispers, “No one.”

_Are you sure about that?_ whispers a voice in the corner of his head. He tries to ignore it.

Something must have shown in his face, because Travis’s brows draw together. “Arthur?” 

“I’m okay.” Focus, he thinks. He grips the edge of the couch cushion in one hand, grounding himself in the present. “What about you?” Arthur asks. “How old were you, the first time you—?”

“Sixteen.”

Younger than Arthur expected. Then again, Travis is beautiful. Arthur wonders where, who, how. He looks down again at his own wasted body and squirms. “What was her name?”

A brief pause. “Daisy.”

“She was someone you went to school with, I guess?”

“She was a little older.”

Arthur fidgets. “I guess it’s a little weird—asking you these things, at a time like this. It’s just…there’s so much about you I don’t know.”

“We got time,” Travis says.

A spasm of pain grips Arthur’s chest. Because he knows better. He wants to know so many things about Travis—about his childhood, the things he likes and doesn’t like. He’ll never find out now. Asking will just spoil the moment, if it’s not already spoiled. But he asks anyway—one more question. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Before, I mighta said blue.”

“What now?”

He stares into Arthur’s eyes. “Green.”

Arthur’s already rapid heartbeat quickens.

Travis tugs down the zipper of Arthur’s pants. He’s breathing heavier now. “Gonna take these off.”

Then Travis is tugging off his pants and underwear. Exposing him completely. There’s a spasm of panic. Travis will _see._

The black-winged creature in his chest stirs and stretches luxuriously, like a cat in sunlight. It _wants_ to be seen.

Travis’s palm slides along the inside of Arthur’s thigh. He stops, his thumb nearly brushing the edge of his scrotum. He’s staring. Arthur feels another stab of panic. But the fear melts into a strange, shivery thrill. “What are you looking at, Travis?” he hears his own voice ask.

“Nothin’.” His gaze slides away.

His lips pull back in a grin. “You were looking at something. On the inside of my thigh.”

A brief pause. “You’ve got a scar. A burn.” His calloused thumb brushes over it. He whispers huskily: “Right here.”

“You want to know what it’s from?”

“I wasn’t gonna ask.”

“I burn myself. With cigarettes.”

Travis’s gaze meets his.

“Does that disturb you?”

“No.” His hand rubs slowly over Arthur’s skinny thigh. Up and down…then further down, caressing the underside of Arthur’s knee—the soft, vulnerable folds of skin there. One fingertip lingers over a particular spot. Another scar. “You like to do it in places where no one can see,” he murmurs.

“It’s easier that way. But I’ve done it on my arms before, too.”

“I noticed that—the marks there. The other night. Didn’t know what they were, though.”

“Sometimes I want people to see. Sometimes I want to show the whole world my ugly insides.”

“Your insides aren’t ugly.”

“How would you know?”

Travis keeps rubbing at the scar behind his knee. “I know.” His hand slides down Arthur’s calf, down his ankle, to his foot. He wraps his fingers around it, touching the sole, and Arthur’s foot twitches, the air hissing softly between his teeth as Travis presses the tip of his finger to another scar there. “Thought there’d be one here,” Travis says, his voice throaty. “I was right.”

Arthur’s heart pounds, reverberating through his body, as Travis’s hands slide up his waist, rough and firm.

He has never been _touched_ so much. He’s not used to physical contact at all, aside from hugging his mother, and this is, well—different.

After that first evening in Travis’s apartment, he spent so many sleepless nights fantasizing about Travis’s hands on his skin. Now it’s happening. They’re hot against him. He imagines their shape burning into him. In his head, their touch leaves bright, glowing red marks wherever they linger.

His arms move of their own accord, wrapping slowly around Travis’s waist, pulling him closer. One hand slides up beneath his shirt, along his taut, muscled back, and touches the edge of a scar. A very big one, meandering like a mountain range over his shoulder, to his spine. Travis tenses a little.

“Did you get this in the war?” Arthur asks.

“I did.” Arthur waits, but he says nothing else.

The tip of Arthur’s tongue creeps out, wetting his lower lip. “It must have hurt.”

“Stung a little.”

“I bet.”

“Thought I was gonna die, to tell you the truth.”

Arthur’s chest tightens. He’s suddenly ashamed of himself—of all his little play-scars. Burning himself with cigarettes in morbid self-pity, wrapped up in his own stupid little pain, his stupid loneliness. Travis’s scar is real and serious, from a wound inflicted on him against his will, in a war he was forced to fight in. “I’m sorry,” he says softly.

“Don’t be.”

Arthur’s face burns. His gaze remains downcast. “It’s just…”

“I’ve hurt myself before, too,” Travis says.

Arthur’s gaze snaps up.

“Told myself I was doing it to test my endurance. Some shit like that. But it was more like jerking off, I think. Just…relieving pressure.”

“What did you use?” His voice seems to be coming from far away.

“Gas flame. On the stove. I used a knife, a couple times, but I didn’t like leaving scars. Didn’t want anyone to notice.” 

Arthur bites his lower lip.

Travis’s hand moves back to Arthur’s groin. His warm, rough palm rubs over his cock in a few slow, firm strokes.

Arthur’s hips twitch.

“You want this? I can keep going.” He strokes him again. Arthur's already hard, but he feels himself swelling in Travis's hand. His cock is so engorged, it almost hurts. A clear bead of precum bubbles from the slit at the tip, slides down along the underside.

It’s getting more difficult to form words. “Feels good,” Arthur manages to mumble. He watches, a little dazed, as Travis’s hand moves up and down his cock. Firm and practiced. He gives the head a little squeeze, coaxing out another drop of sticky liquid.

“You ever burn yourself here?”

Oh god. Is he allowed to ask that? A laugh bubbles up, and Arthur turns his face to one side, pressing it against the back of the couch. “I was never quite that brave.”

“Me neither.”

Then Travis’s other hand caresses his balls. He rolls them across his palm—massaging them gently, carefully, like something fragile and precious. A finger slips behind his scrotum and brushes over his opening, and Arthur hiccups, balls tightening a little.

“Goin’ in.”

“Okay,” Arthur whispers breathlessly.

"Just one finger. To start." The finger pushes a little harder, then works its way inside him. Arthur’s nails dig into Travis’s back.

Travis lowers his head, hot breath gusting again Arthur’s throat. “How’s that?”

“Feels…f-funny.”

“Funny good or bad?”

“Good. I think.”

Travis hesitates. “Never done this. Anal, I mean.” His finger moves inside Arthur.

Arthur’s breathing quickens. His blunt nails dig into Travis’s back through his shirt.

“Seen porn of it,” Travis says, “but, you know—everything’s different in porn.”

He can feel Travis’s rigid dick pressing up against his thigh, hard and hot, throbbing. He’s suddenly conscious of how narrow the couch is—barely wide enough to accommodate them. They should probably be on the bed. It would be less awkward. But it’s a little late for that.

Travis pushes a little harder, and Arthur’s muscles stiffen.

“You wanna keep going?”

“I need it.” His breathing quickens. “Please—don’t stop. I need you, Travis. I need…”

“What?” He’s breathing harder, now. “Say it. Let me hear you.”

_Please. Let me do this. Let me feel this. Let me have you inside me. Just once._

And it will only be this once. This is his last chance. He has made up his mind. Tomorrow…

No. He won’t think about tomorrow. But the thought has already formed in his head. And he wonders, now, what will happen to Travis. What this will do to him. His throat constricts. 

_You’ll break his heart._

What choice does he have?

_It’s wrong. Letting him get attached. Doing this is wrong._

But Travis is already attached. They are already deep in each other’s hearts. What difference does it make now?

A hand grips his chin. “Arthur. Hey. Arthur, look at me.”

“Wh-what?”

“Are you with me?”

Travis’s face is there, close to his. He blinks a few times, focusing. “Yes.”

“Tell me what you need.”

Arthur draws in a slow, shaky breath. His mouth opens. For an instant, the truth quivers in his throat. And he feels a shift. He’s sinking. He’s lighter and heavier at the same time. A black-velvet laugh ripples out of him. “You _know_ what I need.” There’s a lilt in his voice, now. Playful and wicked. He smiles. “You just want to hear me begging for that big dick of yours.”

Travis’s erection jerks against him.

“Do I need to say pretty please?”

His lids lower, and his brown eyes darken. He withdraws his finger and lowers his head again, lips brushing over Arthur’s ear, then his throat. “Lift your hips up,” he growls against Arthur’s racing pulse.

Arthur does.

Travis spits into his palm and strokes himself with it, spreading the saliva over his cock. Then he eases forward. Something hard and hot presses up against Arthur’s entrance. There’s another jolt of panic.

_This is going to hurt,_ he thinks. But there’s a strange, wicked anticipation in the thought. He wonders if there will be blood. He’s heard that women sometimes bleed after their first time. It’s different for men, of course. But he’s about to be stretched open in a way his body is not accustomed to.

_You can take it,_ that inner voice whispers.

More pressure. Travis grunts and pulls back.

“Travis?” A hint of uncertainty creeps into his voice.

One finger presses into him again—a sudden shock, an intrusion. Then another joins it. Arthur squirms. It’s starting to feel crowded in there. There’s a twinge of pain.

“Christ. You’re tight.”

“I’m s—” Travis’s free hand covers his mouth again, cutting off the apology. Removing the responsibility of speech, reducing him to eyes and nerves.

The fingers move slowly inside him. Testing. Stretching. There’s an intentness in Travis’s expression, a quiet focus.

His fingers slide out again. His body presses down on top of Arthur’s. Holding him there, pinned to the couch, as he moves atop him, against him, positioning himself again. The round, engorged head of his cock feels impossibly huge, pushing up against Arthur’s entrance. Still, he doesn’t penetrate. Just pushes against him. His stomach drags over Arthur’s dick.

Arthur whimpers.

“Shh.” Travis’s hand is still covering his mouth. He kisses Arthur’s temple, then stops to look into Arthur’s eyes again. His hips move, rocking against him, thrusting. Still never quite entering him. “Not yet,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Not yet.”

Arthur whines against his palm. His hips push upward, sliding his cock against Travis’s shirt, against the hard abdomen beneath. His eyes roll back, and the world goes hazy.

“Good, Arthur. Just keep movin’. Keep going.” Travis’s dick drags along the crease between the skinny cheeks of his ass, nudges his balls. “I got you,” his voice rasps, deep and rough, in Arthur’s ear. Vibrating inside his head, in his bones.

Arthur can’t answer. But a shiver of warm liquid pleasure ripples through him.

“This is what you need, isn’t it?” Travis’s lips move against his ear.

“Mm…”

“Let your head go empty.” He moves. Pushing against him without entering. The friction of his dick against that tight ring of muscle sends electric tremors through Arthur’s nerves. His hand remains clamped firmly over Arthur’s mouth.

“You’re trembling,” Travis says, his voice low and rough. “I feel it.”

He starts to apologize, automatically, but Travis’s palm muffles the words.

“You trembled before, too.”

Arthur’s lashes flick rapidly up and down.

Travis lifts his hand from Arthur’s mouth. Arthur looks up at him and says nothing. The hand descends again. This time, he covers Arthur’s eyes. The world goes black.

In a flash, Arthur remembers a TV show about birds of prey. How handlers tame them by covering their heads with a hood. When they can’t see, they shut down.

“There,” Travis says. “Felt you loosen up a little.” His voice has gone strangely flat, almost clinical. Cold. Like he's a doctor operating on a patient, or a mechanic taking apart a machine. Yet beneath that coldness, there's something dark and focused. His breathing is shallow and quick. “Let’s try this.” He pushes harder. "I'm going into you now, Arthur."

The very tip of his cock enters, and even _that—_ oh—Arthur feels himself clenching tighter. He cries out, a sharp, ragged sound. He half-expects Travis to tense up, to pull back, to ask if he's okay.

Travis goes still. But he doesn't pull back. He waits. Only the head is inside Arthur. But he feels it as a presence through his whole body, waves of sensation pulsing through him. Travis is in his stomach, his ribcage, his throat, his brain, in the marrow of his bones. He’s breathing hard and fast, his chest fluttering, rapid little rises and falls. He feels muscles inside him clamping down. And still, a part of him wants it more, wants it deeper. There’s an itch, a hunger deep inside him, a spot aching to be pressed. _More,_ he thinks. _More._

Travis pulls out of him.

Arthur feels a flash of panic. “W-wait…please. I can do it—”

Travis covers his mouth again. His thumb presses into Arthur’s cheek, hard enough to make his eyes water. But his voice is gentle. Controlled. “You’re closed very tight, Arthur.” Ragged breathing fills his ear. “I don’t want to damage you.”

A sound of frustration escapes his throat. Tears sting his eyes.

“You need to cum. I understand that. I’ll get you there. Keep moving.”

Arthur moans. His hips push up again and again.

Travis’s body moves in tandem with his, grinding down on him, trapping his aching cock. “Good. That’s good, Arthur.” 

Arthur’s arms fall to his sides, then lift again, moving in an awkward, jerky way, like a marionette—they swing up, and he clutches at Travis’s shoulders, fingers digging in, clawing. He squirms beneath him.

“It’s okay,” Travis murmurs. “That’s it, I’ve got you—keep going—”

Arthur’s hips piston on the couch, muscles flexing and straining. He needs it, god, he needs it so much, but it’s not enough. He _can’t—_

Travis’s body presses down on his. He’s trapped. Pinned. He has an image of a big cat—a cougar, maybe—crouched atop a downed stag, talons pressed deep into the deer’s flesh, fangs locked into his neck. Not biting, not ripping. Just holding him there as his heart and lungs labor. Arthur’s eyes find Travis’s. When they started this, Travis seemed like a nervous, fumbling adolescent, uncertain of what to do, and now—

Something has awakened within Travis. Some predatory instinct, some primal energy. He seems almost possessed. Arthur has the impression that his own eyes have become panes of glass—or maybe tunnels—and Travis can see straight through them, into the chaotic swirling storm of his brain. Every time Arthur starts to panic and struggle, he feels that energy press down against him, like a wall, solid and smothering.

_More,_ Arthur thinks. _It’s not enough. More, more, more, more, more._

Travis presses down, stomach grinding against Arthur’s cock.

So close. So close.

Arthur’s crying now, a slow, warm leak of tears from his eyes.

Travis bites the spot beneath his ear. The nerve jumps and twists like a live wire. Arthur’s muscles go loose and shivery. His eyes roll back.

And then, without warning, Travis slides into his body again, the head of his cock squeezing through the tight ring. He’s inside. _He’s inside._ He’s pushing in hard, sharp little jabs. Not deep—just an inch or two into him—but fierce. The saliva barely provides any lubrication. It burns. Oh, it _burns_. That friction, that scrape of hard flesh against nerve-endings. But the wires in Arthur’s brain are tangled now, pleasure and pain feeding into each other in a loop, and the burn is a slow, sweet ache spreading through his body like honey. Travis’s dick is a lit cigarette pressing into his skin. He feels the sharp sizzle as the burning end extinguishes itself in his flesh.

“There. There you are.” His voice is deep. Rough. Travis's gaze drills down into him. “Right there. That’s where I want you.”

Arthur’s arms move in spasms, gripping and clawing at Travis’s back, at his shoulders. One leg kicks into the air, hooks over Travis’s hips and pulls him in closer. Travis’s hips move in sharp jerks. His cock slides in another inch.

“Keep those eyes open.” He’s struggling to hold his voice steady. “I need to see you.”

Another sharp thrust. Deeper. And another. Pushing against that hungry, needy little spot. Jabbing into it—a needle of pleasure-pain, piercing his innards, sliding right into the tender center of his being. Muscles clench tight, bearing down, then blossom open again. His vision grays out. His hands claw and scrabble at Travis’s back.

_Travis…what are you_ doing _to me…_

“Keep going, Arthur.”

_I can’t…_

“Let go.” His hand tightens over Arthur’s mouth.

He’s moaning and bucking beneath Travis, helpless, his body out of control. Whining, drooling like an animal against his hand. He breathes in the smell of Travis’s skin. He’s almost…almost…

Arthur’s brain turns to static. He lets out a muffled cry against Travis’s palm. Travis groans and rolls his hips, and a moment later, something warm and sticky is sliding down Arthur’s thighs. There’s more on his stomach. It’s everywhere. He’s soaked in his own cum.

Slowly, Travis uncovers his mouth. Arthur stares up at him, dazed.

Travis touches his cheek. Strokes his hair. He’s still breathing hard and fast, still flushed, his face damp with sweat. He blinks a few times—he seems to be coming down from…something. Some altered state. “Arthur…are you…”

“Yes.”

He’s back on the carousel. Turning and turning. The world rotates.

Travis cradles Arthur’s face in one hand. He gulps in another breath. His eyes are wide, almost nervous. “You—you need anything?”

“I—don’t know.” He’s shaking. They both are. He feels turned inside out, remade, exposed. He feels as though the contents of his mind and heart have been thrown into a blender. He’s a limp dishrag, drenched and then wrung out. He realizes, dimly, that he’s drooling, saliva sliding from one corner of his mouth. His hand moves on its own, lifting slowly—a marionette’s arm, pulled by a string—to wipe the moisture away.

Travis’s self-possession has faded. He seems bewildered now. Touching Arthur everywhere, stroking him, as though to make sure he’s not injured.

“I’m okay,” Arthur says, and his voice seems to be coming from another planet.

Travis scrutinizes his expression. He has such a serious little frown on his face. It’s almost funny. Arthur smiles lazily at him. He feels fuzzy. Floaty.

“I love you,” Travis says.

The breath catches in Arthur’s throat. His insides go still.

And suddenly he’s afraid. Not in the way he was before—a deer gripped by a predator’s claws, shivering with the strange thrill of it—but in the way of a man remembering his own fate.

“Arthur…Arthur, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

He shakes his head.

“Talk to me. Please.”

"I'm fine. I promise. Just...a little dizzy." He swallows. “Maybe...we should shower."

There’s a brief pause. Then: “Sure. We can do that.”

He hears the hint of sadness in Travis’s voice. The confusion. He keeps his face turned away, afraid Travis will see the pain in his eyes.

_You can't disappoint me,_ Travis told him earlier. But of course, that isn't true.

* * *

The hiss of the shower fills Arthur’s ears as the water beats against his back.

Travis—perhaps thinking he needed the space—suggested they take turns. “The shower's not really big enough for two people,” he said. 

The stall _is_ small. They’d be smooshed together. A part of Arthur wants that. Wants Travis’s body pressed up against his, the smell and feel of his skin. Another part of him is pulling inward, retreating, like a turtle into its shell—craving space, craving boundaries. It’s just fear. He knows that. Now that he’s alone, sealed off in the ceramic womb of the tiled stall, he feels no relief.

None of this was supposed to happen. Travis isn’t supposed to be here at all. When Arthur left him that first night, he was already preparing on some level for the inevitable—already knew, deep down, that his life was over. He didn’t want to hurt Travis by getting close to him. But Travis wouldn’t let him go.

And now he doesn’t know what to do. Because the truth is that he _wants_ to be saved. More than anything. His soul has been crying out for years, decades, asking the universe for someone to save him from the world, for someone to reach out to him through the darkness and pull him up out of hell. But now that Travis is here, now that Arthur sees what it would mean to be saved, he’s scared.

He senses himself detaching from his mind and body. There’s a faint ache, a lingering burn inside him, but it barely registers. He washes himself off briskly, staring at the wall.

While Travis takes his turn in the shower, Arthur gets dressed. His movements are stiff. Pained. He sits down on the edge of the bed.

Travis emerges from the bathroom, wearing a pair of jeans and a towel around his shoulders, his hair still wet. As he turns, Arthur glimpses the long red scratches on his upper back. He stares.

“What?” Travis asks, toweling off his hair.

“Your back…”

“Oh yeah. It’s fine.”

“I didn’t realize I scratched you that hard.”

Travis gives him a little, one-sided smile. “Wildcat,” he says.

Arthur licks his lips. He watches Travis shrug into his plaid shirt and button it up, his fingers flitting through the familiar motions. “Travis? Will you do something for me?”

Travis freezes, the first few buttons still undone, and looks him in the eye. “Anything.”

“Will you just…sit close to me?”

Travis approaches and sits down next to Arthur. “You okay?”

“Yes.”

He’s not. It’s obvious. Arthur has never been good at hiding his emotions. Travis probably blames himself—probably thinks that he hurt or scared Arthur.

Travis clears his throat softly, rubs the back of his neck. “Listen, I—I know I was kinda rough.”

“I like that you were rough. I wanted to feel your strength.”

“You were a virgin.”

“I don’t know about that." He finds himself reaching automatically for a cigarette, but there are none around him. He touches his lower lip, rubbing two fingers against it. "I think I lost my virginity the night I killed those men on the subway.”

Travis’s brows knit together. “What do you mean?” Alarm flickers across his face. “Did they—”

“No. It’s not like that. It’s just…killing seems like a type of sex.”

Travis stares.

“Is that a weird thing to say? I guess so. I don’t even know what I mean. It just…felt intimate. I remember thinking that, after I killed the last one.” He smiles a little, staring off into space. “He was awful. They all were. But in that moment, when I felt them die, I almost loved them. I saw the masks fall away. I saw how human they were. How afraid and alone. Just like me. And I felt so…tender.” He tilts his head back, his gaze loosely fixed on the ceiling. “Did you ever feel that? When you killed people?”

“Love? No. Can’t say I did.”

“Do you believe that killing can be an act of love?”

“I guess…if you’re killing to save someone you love. Or…” He falls silent.

He’s confused. A little uneasy. Arthur can tell. He senses, too, that if he makes eye contact, he can convey what he means to Travis. They are both open to each other, right now. They can plug directly into each other’s minds; Travis did that, when he was inside Arthur.

But of course, that’s why he can’t risk it now.

“You were there, too,” he whispers. “You were part of it. When you looked at me…when we saw each other that first time…it was like we were inside each other. You said it yourself. You saw my soul.” He stares into space. “It felt good. What you did to me, tonight. It was beautiful. But it didn’t feel like my first time.”

Travis touches the back of his wrist. “Arthur,” he says. “What's goin' on?" Silence. "There _is_ something. Isn't there?”

“I just want to be close to you right now. That’s all.”

Travis’s expression softens, and he nods.

They stretch out together on the bed, and Travis wraps his arms around Arthur, pulling him against his shoulder. He slides a hand into Arthur’s hair, holds his head to his shoulder. Arthur closes his eyes. Travis’s arms are so warm and strong around him. A cocoon. A force-field. This is love, he thinks. This is what it’s supposed to be. He feels Travis’s love for him as a simple fact. Unconditional.

Love, of course, does not mean that two people can’t hurt each other. He knows that, because he loves his mother too, and she loves him. She has hurt him so much. And he's probably hurt her, too. But the bedrock reality of love remained, through all the pain. Even when…

Arthur closes his eyes and snuggles closer to Travis.

If only things had happened differently. If only they’d met under other circumstances. 

At least he has this. This last bit of warmth and closeness. This taste of love, this bittersweet ache. He tells himself to focus on the moment, on the pressure of Travis’s arms around him.

Travis strokes his hair. Arthur presses against him, imagining that he’s a small child again, cradled and protected. Seen.

Travis clasps Arthur's hand in his. Gently, he massages Arthur's ring-finger. Rubbing the knuckle, then the fingertip, with a jeweler's care. As though every part of Arthur's body is precious, worthy of study and devotion. Arthur shuts his eyes tight.

_Don’t laugh. Don’t cry._

* * *

After a while, Travis’s breathing slows and evens. His eyes are closed. Arthur waits, watching and listening, to make sure he’s drifted off. Then he carefully untangles himself from Travis’s arms, tiptoes into the other room, and puts his shoes on. He moves slowly, quietly, not making a sound. Faint dawn light filters through the blinds.

He has to slip out now, before Travis wakes. He can’t allow himself to hesitate or think. Thinking will bring doubt.

He starts to move toward the door…then stops. He clutches his wrist.

He knows this is for the best, that it's necessary. But he can’t just disappear. Not without saying goodbye.

He creeps into the kitchen, finds a piece of paper, and begins to write: _I’m sorry for this. I’m sorry I cudn’t tell you. Thank you for taking me to the park and for making love to me and holding me. Thank you for everything. No one has ever made me feel so speshel. I’m sorry I cudn’t say the words before. I’ll say them now. I love you, Travis. I love you, I love you, I love you. Goodbye._

He leaves the letter on the counter and walks toward the door.

A hand closes around his wrist like a manacle. Arthur freezes. He feels Travis leaning closer, feels a gust of warm breath across his neck.

“Arthur.” Travis’s voice is low. Almost cold. “Where are you going?”


	13. Chapter 13

In Arkham, cigarettes were rationed carefully, given as a treat for good behavior. Arthur has forgotten much of his time there, but he remembers that much clearly.

_Are you going to behave yourself, Arthur? Are you going to cooperate?_

He remembers his attempt—how much blood there was. He remembers passing out on the bathroom floor, waking to the sound of his mother screaming. He regained consciousness briefly in the ambulance, long enough to think, _I failed. I’m still alive,_ before blacking out again.

They transferred him from the regular hospital to Arkham. One white hall to another. A stale, sour smell in the air.

They took his clothes and gave him a plain white shirt and pants. They weighed him. They listened to his heartbeat and lungs, shone a light in his eyes and ears, asked him if there were any medications he took, and jotted down notes. They gave him two large white pills and a tiny paper cup filled with water and told him to take the pills. He swallowed them without asking what they were.

They assigned him a room with a small, grainy TV in the corner, near the ceiling. Someone had turned it on; a shampoo commercial played, a woman running her hands through a long, luxurious blond mane as a soothing voiceover talked about herbal infusions. 

He could feel the drugs doing their work, numbing his brain, spreading a soft cottony fog over his thoughts. He sat on the edge of his narrow cot and stared at a point on the wall. Nowhere left to fall.

The world seemed to be shrinking. His skull was a cramped room and he was sitting inside it, looking out through dirty windows. His eyeballs turned to the left, then the right. In his head, he heard a squeaking sound when they moved, like balloons rubbing together. They were dry, chafing against the inside of his sockets with each turn. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead; uncomfortably bright, stinging.

The TV blared. Its glow leaked into his brain, poisonous, radioactive. He shut his eyes, but the voices still crept into his ears like cockroaches.

There was no remote control, no way to turn off the TV or change the channel. It seemed like a good metaphor for his mind: stuck in a tiny room with voices and images that kept playing in the background. No escape. He looked up. The TV was a single, malevolent, flickering eye staring down at him.

There was a mirror on one side of the room, set deep into the wall, so he couldn’t break it and use the shards to cut his wrists. He wondered if there were people watching him on the other side. He was a specimen in a cage. He bared his teeth in a smile.

This was the fulfillment of his fantasy, wasn’t it? He always wanted to be seen.

Of course, being _watched_ isn’t quite the same.

There was no clock in the room. No time.

He stretched out on the cot and interlaced his fingers behind his head. The TV laughed, mocking faces baring their teeth at him.

* * *

He spent three years in that place. Three years of bad food, sour-smelling, stained mattresses, and drugs. Three years of rotating roommates. One of them wouldn’t stop screaming, until he vanished for a day and came back with a shaved head, bruised-looking flesh around his haunted eyes, and a scar. No screaming after that. Another one climbed into Arthur’s bed one night and touched him, and because he was so lonely and confused, he let it happen, and then he made himself forget.

There was always someone with him, there. A shadow, lurking in the corner of his head. A silent figure watching him from the other end of the room, in the darkness.

Arthur doesn’t want to go back to that place. Dying would be better. But to die without being _seen…_ to rot softly, like forgotten food in the back of the refrigerator…

He thinks of the TV. A magic window in everyone’s home, through which mind-control spells are cast. A seductive, whispering voice. The faces on TV are powerful. Thomas Wayne is on TV. So is Murray. Arthur has never met them, has never touched them, but they are deep inside him, like gossamer threads woven through his brain, because he sat in front of that box with his mother night after night.

Arthur has always been on the receiving end—the one looking in through that window, into another world. A better world. He wants to be the one in the TV.

He doesn’t want to disappear like a raindrop into a pond.

He wants to make some ripples.

* * *

Travis grips Arthur’s wrist. It feels thin and fragile in his hand. Breakable. Arthur stares into space, motionless, breathing shallowly. Like a rabbit trying not to be noticed by a wolf. 

“Where are you going?” Travis asks again.

Arthur’s hand curls into a fist. “I just needed some air,” he mumbles.

“So you decided to sneak out in the middle of the night?”

“You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I wasn’t asleep.”

Arthur’s head moves to one side a little.

Travis follows his gaze and sees the piece of paper on the counter. Arthur makes a grab for it, but Travis is faster; he snatches it and scans the lines. As he reads, his chest tightens. Phrases jump out at him.

_I’m sorry. I love you. Goodbye._

The note slips from his hand and flutters to the floor.

Arthur’s ragged breathing echoes through the silence. His panicked gaze darts from Travis to the door and back again.

“Arthur. Look at me.”

Arthur shuts his eyes. His lips quiver, and he presses them together. His eyes remain closed, but Travis can see tears leaking out through his squeezed-shut lids.

Travis’s hand tightens on his wrist. “You think I don’t know what this is? You think I haven’t been where you are right now?”

Arthur’s face twitches. He’s trying to hold in a laugh. “I’m not sure you have.” His eyes are wide, white-edged, glazed. “They cut my program, you know.”

“Program? What program?”

“My medication. There’s no way to get it now.”

“You’re sick?”

A smile tightens his face. “I told you I was in the hospital for a while. In Arkham.”

“We’ll find a way. Whatever’s going on, we can fix it. You want pills? I know people. I can get you pills.”

He brays out a laugh, so suddenly that Travis flinches back, and claps his free hand over his mouth. The laughter tapers off into a croak. “It’s—n-not just that.” His face keeps twitching, contorting. “They _know_ , Travis. I could hear it in their voices. They know it was me.”

“Who? Who knows?”

“The police.”

Travis searches his face. “They been askin’ you questions. About the subway murders.”

Arthur nods.

So, the cops have already contacted him. Must’ve happened before he called Travis. Okay, he thinks. Okay. It’s not good, but they can deal with this.

“Maybe they suspect,” Travis says, “but they don’t know. They don’t have any proof.”

“They know it was a clown. They know about the gun. And they know I was fired that day.”

“If they question you again, just tell ‘em you were with me all night. I’ll back up your story. I’ll be your alibi.”

“No. No, Travis. Don’t lie for me. I don’t want them to come after you too.”

“That’s why you’re planning to die?”

“I’m not planning to die.”

“Then what the hell was that note about?”

For the first time, Arthur looks him straight in the eye. “I’m going to turn myself in. I’m going to tell them everything.” 

Travis stares. “Why the hell would you wanna do that?”

He smiles again, tight-stretched lips framing jagged teeth. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“Bullshit,” Travis spits. He grips those frail shoulders tight. “You spent your life getting fucked over by the system. They didn’t protect _you._ Why do you feel like you owe those assholes anything? Don’t kid yourself, Arthur. You’re not doin’ this because you think it’s _right._ It’s just another kind of suicide. It’s giving up.” He hears the edge of desperation in his own voice. “What do you think it’s gonna solve?”

A muscle at the corner of his eye twitches. “All those people in masks…they’re burning things and hurting other people out there. Because of me.It’s all happening because of me. And it won’t stop until I confess.”

“That won’t stop it. They’re not doin’ this because they think you want it. This is bigger than you, now. If they wanna burn the world, they’ll go on burning it no matter what you say to them.”

He laughs, a choked sound. “You’re probably right,” he mutters.

“Then don’t do this. Don’t throw your life away. What’s the goddamn _point?”_

“Every time I turn on the TV, every time I look at a newspaper, there’s something about the subway murders. Everyone thinks they understand. But no one does. No one sees the real me. And they never will. Unless I tell them.”

“And that’s worth giving up your freedom? Your life? That’s worth—” he stops. The words _leaving me_ form in his throat. He swallows them.

“I can’t go back. It’s too late. I’m sorry, Travis. Please, please, just let me go. Save yourself.”

Travis captures Arthur’s face between his hands and stares into his eyes. They’re wide, over-bright, shiny with tears. For a long moment, Travis just stares into them. He sees the terror there, the soul trapped inside, staring out at him, caged behind a frozen grin. _Help me,_ Arthur’s screaming with his eyes. _Help me._

Travis drags him into an embrace and kisses him, hard. His hands slide through his hair. Arthur doesn’t return the kiss, but he remains unresisting, pliant in Travis’s arms. “It’s all right,” he murmurs against Arthur’s ear. “We’re gonna talk about this. We’re gonna figure it out. But I’m _not_ letting you disappear again.”

No response.

“Arthur.”

“You couldn’t make this easy, could you?” He bows his head, hair hanging in his face. “I never wanted to hurt you.” Another giggle escapes him. He goes loose and boneless in Travis’s grip, so quickly that he nearly drops to the floor. Travis tightens his grip on Arthur’s upper arms, hoisting him up. Arthur hangs, limp and doll-like in his arms. “I want a cigarette. But I’m all out.”

“Look me in the eye.”

“So forceful.” He smirks, head tipping back like a flower with a half-snapped stem. “I should never have come back here. I know that. I shouldn’t have called you. But for a little while, because of you…I was happy. And I wouldn’t take it back. Thank you, my love.” 

“Don’t talk like that. You aren’t goin’ anywhere.” 

Slowly, Arthur straightens. He sways a little on his feet, woozily. Travis’s grip on him remains tight. Arthur’s gaze locks with his. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For trying.”

Then Arthur’s body jerks forward, and his forehead slams into Travis’s. Hard. Stars burst behind his eyes.

Travis staggers back. “Agh! _Fuck.”_ He makes a grab for the counter, misses it, and falls to his knees. Something wet and warm trickles into his left eye, stinging, and he blinks it away.

When he looks up, Arthur is already disappearing out the door.

_“Arthur!”_ Travis runs after him.

The door slams. Travis flings it open and runs out, head still pounding. A wave of dizziness hits him. He stops, stumbles, and has to lean against the wall for a few seconds.

It felt like getting hit by a brick. Arthur’s skull must be made of rock.

The world steadies. He wipes the blood out of his eyes and keeps running, chasing Arthur down the stairs, out into the frigid night. Icy rain slicks the streets. He looks around, shivering, but he can’t see Arthur anymore. He doesn’t know which way he went. _“Arthur! Arthur, where are you?”_

A warm line of blood trickles down his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, and drips to the pavement below. Travis touches the blood, rubs it between his fingers. His jaws clench. He wants to roar like a wounded lion. But he makes no sound.

He spins around, scanning the streets. Like a hound scenting the air. He’ll track him down. He got careless. But he won’t let Arthur slip out of his grip a second time.

_Think_. Where will Arthur go?

Home. Of course. He wouldn’t disappear without saying goodbye to his mother. Arthur isn’t that kind of guy.

He doesn’t know where Arthur lives. Not his address, anyway. But he knows the phone booth where he picked Arthur up. If Arthur walked there, it must be close to his apartment. 

Travis gets into the cab and starts up the engine. “I’m comin’ for you,” he mutters.

_Can’t take a fuckin’ hint, can’t you Travis? Just like before._

No. Arthur needs help. He’s confused, racked with guilt, about to do something stupid. He doesn’t have a chance. If he turns himself in, they’ll kill him. Or they’ll lock him in a cage and throw away the key.

_Iris was in real danger, too. But she didn’t want your help. And look what happened._

Would it have been better, if he’d left her alone?

“Damn it, damn it.” He slams his fists into the steering wheel. “What am I supposed to _do?_ ”

Doing nothing can’t be right. It can’t. Arthur’s planning to die—he knows it.

_That’s his choice, isn’t it?_

Travis was prepared to make that same choice, not long ago. He would’ve done it. Would’ve ODed in the subway tunnel and died down there with the rats. But Arthur saved him. He awakened him.

If Arthur vanishes now, he will take all the light in the world with him. Travis will be worse off than before. And he won’t even be able to kill himself. He feels that, instinctively; he won’t be able to throw away the life that Arthur returned to him. He’ll be trapped in hell. Alone.

He bows his head, resting his forehead on the steering wheel. “God dammit. God _dammit._ ”

And there’s another thought, now: _He fucked me and left me._

This whole time, Arthur’s been planning this.

Travis yanks the cab into reverse, veers out of the parking space, and blasts down the road, weaving through traffic. He blows through a red light. Someone honks. He ignores them.

Arthur thinks he can toy with Travis’s heart, smash it to pieces and leave him in shambles? He thinks it will be that easy?

He clings to the rage, nurses it. It gives him strength.

In his mind, he sees himself stalking into Palantine headquarters, advancing toward Betsy, the flash of fear in her eyes—

He slams on the brakes, and a truck behind him blasts the horn. “Fuck.”

Is he just repeating the same patterns again?

_No. Stop it. Focus._

He keeps driving. 

This isn’t the same, damn it. Betsy didn’t want him, and he couldn’t accept that. He was too wrapped up in his own pain to see what he was doing to her. If Arthur broke it off with him because he didn’t want him, Travis would let him go. He’d accept it, in spite of the pain. But this…

_Save yourself,_ Arthur said. Because—what? He thinks sticking around will destroy Travis? This is some stupid, misguided attempt to _protect_ him.

Tires screech as he veers around a turn, then another. His foot presses down on the gas pedal. Ahead, he spots the phone booth where he picked up Arthur. He keeps driving. The building has to be around here somewhere. How will he even recognize it? He stops, parking on a corner, and lurks, watching. Scanning the streets. His hand moves back and forth over the steering wheel, feeling the familiar bumps and grooves.

He watches. Waits.

As he sits, doubt creeps in. He has no way of knowing if Arthur is even going to come here. Maybe he already said his goodbyes to Penny. Maybe he’s changed his plans and decided to leap in front of a truck. For all Travis knows, he could already be dead.

No. If Arthur was dead, he would feel it. He’s sure of that. Their souls are already linked. Arthur has slipped inside him—like a rose thorn under a fingernail. Like a sewing needle into the pupil of an eye. Travis can still feel him out there.

The windshield wipers swish. Sleet patters against the glass. The world is a distorted blur, lights bleeding together, cars roaring past. Travis’s heartbeat slows. He goes into a quiet place in his head. A place where he can observe, eyes unclouded by fear or anger.

_There._ He glimpses a slumped, scraggly-haired walking down the sidewalk, limping a little. 

It’s him.

Arthur stops. He stands motionless, a dark silhouette. Travis is too far away to see his expression. The sky is still mostly dark. Arthur stumbles a little to one side, as though he’s drunk, and clutches his head in both hands, like he’s having some kind of existential migraine. He leans against a street light—clings to it with one arm, like it’s the only thing holding him up. 

The world goes still. Sounds fade to silence. Arthur turns away.

Travis gets out of the cab and strides toward him. He moves purposefully. Not running, but closing the distance rapidly, like a tiger stalking prey. Arthur walks with an unsteady, lurching gait. Maybe he hurt himself when he slammed his head into Travis’s, too. When he catches up to Arthur, they’re nearly at the front door of the apartment.

At the last minute, Arthur turns toward him. His eyes widen, but it’s too late to react. Travis lunges and tackles him to the ground. Arthur swings a fist. It catches him on the cheek, but he barely feels it. He grabs Arthur’s arms and pins them down.

“I’m not letting you go,” Travis says through clenched teeth.

Arthur sobs. Then he tips his head back and starts laughing—a wild, high-pitched laugh. 

Travis tries to cover his mouth, to muffle the sound, but Arthur bites his hand. Travis flinches, but doesn’t move. He just stays as he is, straddling Arthur, as Arthur’s teeth grind into his bone. Thunder rumbles overhead.

Arthur releases him. His head falls back, mouth open and panting, bloody teeth grinning. A few strands of wet hair lay across his face. He starts to laugh again. “What will you do?” he asks, voice cracked. “Kidnap me? Keep me tied up in your cab forever?”

“Damn it, Arthur,” he whispers, his voice breaking.

Arthur goes limp, staring blankly off to the side.

Sleet hammers down on Travis’s back. He’s shivering, drenched. They can’t stay here, him straddling Arthur outside the door to the building. Travis climbs to his feet and drags Arthur up with him. “Come on. Let’s go inside. Unlock the door.”

Arthur hesitates, and for a moment, Travis thinks he’s going to fight. Then he fumbles in his pocket, pulls out the keys. Opens the door. Travis drags him into the lobby.

It’s empty. There’s a wall of mailboxes, encased in a sort of iron cage, and an elevator. Travis keeps a firm grip on Arthur’s shirt.

“You don't have a plan,” Arthur asks, still smiling that bloody smile. “You don't know what you're doing."

“Shut up.” Travis pushes him against the wall. His wrist is dripping blood, too. He ignores it.

Arthur giggles. “Someone might see us.”

“I’ll deal with that if it happens.”

“I could scream.”

“Yeah. I guess you could.”

Arthur stares at him, expression unreadable. His smile fades, and Travis sees the stark despair beneath it. His eyes are still screaming. Begging for help.

He wants to hold Arthur tight. To try to reach that pain, deep inside him, and soothe it. But he doesn’t dare let down his guard again. Arthur’s shown that he’s not above injuring Travis in order to get away. He’s desperate. Struggling like an animal in a trap. They both are.

Travis’s mind races. There has to be a way to talk Arthur out of this. A thought occurs to him, and he seizes on it. “What about your mother? You gonna leave her? Who’s gonna take care of her if you’re locked up?”

Another giggle bubbles up from his throat. “My mother is dead.”


	14. Chapter 14

He remembers, now. It all comes crashing back, like water through a flimsy dam.

Penny was obsessed with the subway murders. She wouldn't let it go. For over a week, he kept his mouth shut, listening to her go on and on about the goodness and innocence of those “poor young men” whose lives were cut tragically short by the actions of a maniac.

And then one day, she was sitting in her chair, reading the paper. He brought Penny her tea and oatmeal, and she remarked, “That murderer still hasn’t been caught. Can you believe it? And those protestors, still treating him like some sort of hero…” She shook her head. “Why aren’t the police doing anything about this?”

A muscle at the corner of his eye twitched. “They’re busy, Mom,” he replied mechanically. “There are a lot of crimes in Gotham. They can’t solve them all at once.”

“Yes, but this one is important, don’t you think?”

He knew he should just agree. But the words slipped out of him before he could stop: “Why? People get murdered in Gotham all the time. Why are you so obsessed with _these_ murders?”

“Well…because it’s horrible, what happened.”

“And all the other murders aren’t horrible?”

“Of course, but…this one is different.”

“Why?” He sat down slowly on the couch.

"Oh, you know."

He lit a cigarette and took a drag. He felt a smile pulling at his lips. He tried to suppress it, but she wasn't even looking at him; she'd turned her attention back to the newspaper, shaking her head and muttering. “You know," he said, "a few weeks ago I saw a homeless man dead in the streets with people just stepping over him. No one even glanced down. I don’t think anyone lost any sleep over him.”

_That_ got her attention. She raised her head, frowning. "That's a rather morbid thing to bring up."

"And talking about those subway murders isn't morbid?"

"I want justice, that's all." She seemed a little uneasy, though. "Anyway, this man you saw...he wasn’t killed, was he? He probably drank himself to death.”

“Or froze. It gets pretty cold at night, you know. Even at this time of year.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I’m just saying. People die. It’s a part of life. And we all just go about our business and ignore it. So why does it matter so much? It’s not like you _knew_ these guys. Why can’t you just let it go and move on?”

Her frown deepened. “Don’t you care that three innocent people were shot? Doesn’t it bother you to see what’s becoming of this city?”

“It’s been this way for a long time. Nothing has changed.”

She sighed and set the paper down. “Once Thomas Wayne is mayor, _he’ll_ change things. He’ll catch that monster, and he’ll make sure he stays locked up for the rest of his life. You can bet on that.”

Arthur's throat clenched. He dropped his unfinished cigarette into the ashtray. _Let it go._ If he left it alone, she would find something else to fixate on, eventually. The more he argued about it with her, the more fiercely she dug in. It wasn't like she suspected him; the idea that her own dear Happy was the killer had never entered her head. He was certain of that. It was just boredom. She had nothing to occupy her time, sitting around the apartment all day, so she looked for things to get outraged about.

But it was so hard, keeping his mouth shut day after day. He was so tired of swallowing his words, feeling them burn and curdle in the pit of his stomach. It didn't help that he was still hiding other things from her. She still didn't know that his program had been cut. Didn't even know he'd been fired. Every morning, he went out and just rode buses and trains around, burning through his meager savings. Every so often he turned in a job application, but more and more the idea of getting a new job had started to feel like a charade, like he was engaged in some absurd, private theater meant to convince himself that he hadn't given up. Once the last of their money ran out, he didn't know what they would do.

_You failed her. You're both going to end up homeless. And winter is just around the bend._ He wondered whether sleeping in the streets would give Penny more empathy for the homeless. Probably not. Even though they were poor themselves, she still talked about poor people in general as though they were a lesser class. She seemed to think that their own misfortune was some sort of cosmic clerical error that would be rectified at any moment. Someone up in the Department of Fate would see their file and say, _Wait a moment, Penny and Arthur Fleck? No, this was a mistake. They're Respectable._ They're _not meant to be living in squalor._ That was what all her letters to Thomas Wayne were really about. She couldn't let go of the idea of being rescued.

Arthur wondered if he was any different. Fantasizing about being recognized by Murray, that validation...wasn't that what he'd craved his whole life?

Travis's face flashed through his head. His chest constricted in a sharp, painful spasm.

_He's gone. You're the one who decided it would be better not to see him again. Let it go._

He stood and started to turn away, toward the kitchen. His movements were slow, stiff. His joints ached.

Penny kept talking, her voice getting louder, as though daring him to argue with her: “Once they catch him, and they _will_ , I hope he doesn't get away with a slap on the wrist. Any man who would slaughter three innocent people deserves to spend the rest of his life in prison. Though, personally, I wouldn’t mind if they just executed the killer. I try to be a forgiving person, goodness knows—I don’t usually favor the death penalty. But some things are beyond forgiveness. Once someone crosses that line, there's no going back.”

Arthur froze. His ragged breathing echoed through the silence.

He could just keep walking. Go into the kitchen and take deep breaths until he'd calmed down. He could change the subject. He could make an excuse to leave and spend another hour riding around aimlessly on the bus. He didn't have to say anything to her.

“It was me,” he said under his breath.

“What? Speak up, Happy. You’re mumbling. I keep telling you—”

“It was me, Mom.” He turned toward her. “I killed those men.”

Her face went blank. She stared at him slackly for a few seconds. Then a flush rose into her cheeks. “That isn’t funny.”

He felt a laugh bubbling up and choked it down. “It isn’t a joke.”

“That’s enough, Happy.” She sounded almost frightened, now. She dropped her gaze and fussed with her blanket. “I swear, sometimes you have such a _peculiar_ sense of humor.” One hand nervously rubbed at the other. “Can you go check the mail for me? I know you said it was empty, but…I thought maybe…”

“Are you even hearing me? Do I sound like I’m joking?”

She pressed her lips together.

“They _attacked_ me, Mom.” His own voice sounded curiously disembodied. As though he were listening to a recording of himself. “They jumped me and beat me. I thought they were going to kill me. That’s why I shot them.”

  
“I don’t like this, Happy,” she said in a small voice. “I—I don’t know what sort of game you’re playing, or what point you’re trying to prove. But I wish you would stop.”

“It’s not a _game._ I’m telling you what happened. I was riding home. I started to laugh, and they grabbed me. They hit me and kicked me. I had a gun, because someone gave it to me at work—”

"Stop it."

"That's why I was fired from my job. I never told you. I was in the children's hospital and the gun fell out of my pants. They fired me on the spot, and on the way home, I saw those men. They were bothering a woman. And I started to laugh. I couldn't stop. They...they came towards me...they were singing..."

_“Stop it!”_ she screamed. She pressed her hands over her ears, breathing hard, eyes wild. 

“Mom, _listen_ to me, please!” He grabbed her hands, pulling them away from her ears. “I need you to understand. It’s not like they’re saying on TV. Those men weren’t innocent victims. They were _hurting_ me.”

“No! That can't be!” She was crying now, twisting and struggling. “You’re lying! You’re playing some horrible game! It wasn’t you!”

“Why would I lie about this, Mom?" His voice broke. "I’m telling you what happened. I had no _choice_ —”

A small, cold voice interjected: _That’s a lie. You didn’t have to kill the third one.  
_

_No. No, I had to—he would’ve—_

Penny looked at him with a strange, wild ferocity burning through the fear, strands of tangled gray hair lying across her face, clinging to her lipstick-red mouth. “They said one of them was shot while he was trying to escape. He was _crawling_ up the _stairs_ when the killer shot him in the back.That’s how they found him. Face-down on those steps.” Her lips trembled. "You wouldn't do that. My God, when you were a little boy you couldn't even step on a spider. You would cry if anyone killed one in front of you. I had to take them outside and let them go. You wouldn't shoot someone in the back while he was trying to get away."

Even in her hysterical state, she remembered that detail. She’d been obsessing over the news for the past week, after all. She forgot so much—she’d blotted Arthur’s suicide attempt from her memory, and most of his horrible childhood, retaining only what she wanted to keep—but she remembered that bit about the fucking stairs.

His hands tightened on her wrists.

“Maybe I made a mistake shooting the last one,” Arthur said, his voice wobbly. “But the first two…I had to. And then the third one ran away. And I didn’t know what to do. I was scared, I was confused. And yes, I was angry. But I never wanted to kill them. I didn’t get on the subway that night planning to murder three people. They went after _me_.”

Her expression closed off again. “No.” She kept shaking her head, trying to pull her hands free. “No, no, no, no.”  
  


“Mom...I don't even care if you call the police after this, I don't care if they lock me up. You can do whatever you want. You can hate me, if you want. You can think I'm horrible. Maybe I am. Just _believe_ me. I'm begging you. Just listen and believe me.”

_"It's a lie!"_

"Please, Mom. I need you now. I need you to understand who I am, I need you to know-"

She wrenched one hand free, wailing. Her palm smacked across his cheek.

In retrospect, he isn’t sure if she meant to hit him or if she was just flailing blindly. But despite the weakness of the slap—despite the frailty of her hand, her inability to do any real damage—he felt the impact down to his bones. And a red curtain of rage came down over his eyes.

He roared, grabbed his own head with both hands, and then lashed out, knocking her oatmeal off the table. The bowl shattered on the floor, spilling its contents everywhere. She froze, looking up at him with wide, terrified eyes.

“Why don’t you believe me?” he shouted. “You’re my _mother!_ But you’d rather believe Thomas Wayne? You’d rather believe the people on TV? Why? What has Thomas Wayne or any of them ever done for us? Ever since that night, I’ve been so scared to tell you, because I knew you would act like this. Because you never listen! You just shut out everything that doesn’t fit into your nice, clean little idea about how the world is! You think because they’re rich, because they’re _respectable,_ that they wouldn’t hurt someone like me? Men like that have been hurting me my entire _life._ They look at me and they see a broken freak. They were laughing as they beat me, Mom. Like it was a _game_. I wasn’t even a real person to them!” He stood, breathing hard, shaking and flushed. “I’ve never gone out of my way to hurt anyone. Not even the people who hurt me. I wish none of it had happened. I wish I hadn’t had to kill them. But I’m not sorry I did it. You lock a rat in a cage and keep shocking it and jabbing it with pins over and over, and then one day that rat bites someone’s hand, and then everyone talks about how dangerous rats are, and how rats are the problem, like the rats _chose_ to be that way. But no one cares what happened to the rat. No one wants to ask. Because then you have to see how awful everything is, and you have to start looking outside the neat little boxes that you put things into and all the nice little stories about how things happen for a reason, and you have to think that maybe the world isn’t like you thought. And no one wants to do that. Everyone—all the people on the news, Thomas Wayne, the protestors, _everyone—_ they just want to make it about them. They want to _use_ it. No one sees the real me. No one will look. Not even you.”

She covered her face, weeping. She looked small, crumpled, frail shoulders slumped. “Who _are_ you?” she moaned.

“I’m Arthur. I’m your son.” His voice softened. “This is me. Look at me, Mom. Please.”

She just kept crying.

The rage rose up again, choking and thick. “ _Look_ at me!”

“You’re not my Happy!” she screamed. _“Give me back my Happy!”_

He felt sick. “Stop calling me that," he said, his voice breaking. "I hate that name.”

“No…” The word was small. Faint.

“I’ve never been happy. Not one moment of my entire fucking life.”

She lowered her hands, staring at him through wide, watery, panic-stricken eyes.

And then those eyes rolled back, disappearing into her head, and she collapsed to the floor.

* * *

_My mother is dead._

“What?” Travis whispers. His hands remain where they are, clutching Arthur’s shirt.

“She’s dead.”

For a moment, he wonders if Arthur is just trying to shock him into letting go. 

But no. He wouldn’t lie about something like this.

Arthur’s smile is locked in place, muscles stretched tight over his skull. Tears course down his deeply-lined cheeks, trailing along the grooves formed by that frozen grin. “I told her the truth. About…what happened that night, on the subway. We had a fight. She fell, and she wouldn’t get up. The doctors said she had a stroke. It was too late for them to save her.”

Jesus, Travis thinks.

All this time…when they were riding on the Ferris wheel, eating cotton candy…when they were making love…

His grip on Arthur’s shirt loosens. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks softly.

“I didn’t remember.”

Travis’s brow furrows in confusion.

“I made myself forget. I—sh-shut it out. I wanted one last good day with you. But a part of me knew, all along. It was my fault.”

“No…Arthur…it’s not your fault.”

“You know, when they told me she was dead, I didn’t cry. I started to laugh. I realized something, then.”

His voice…his voice sounds strange. Wrong.

“All of this—all the horrible things happening to us—it’s a comedy. How can it be anything else? If someone tried to write a tragedy as bad as real life, everyone would say that it was a melodrama. That it was unrealistic. We’ll only accept really awful things if they’re played for laughs. So life _must_ be a comedy. That’s why I came here. I wanted to wear my paint when I turned myself in. I’m a clown, after all. That's the real me. It’s all so…so _funny_. I think if I didn’t laugh, I’d start to scream and never stop.” He licks the last traces of Travis’s blood off his jagged teeth. A strange, bright haze slips over his eyes. “His mind is collapsing all around me. I can feel it.”

“What? Whose?”

“Arthur’s.”

“You _are_ Arthur.”

“I’m the other Arthur. The one in the back. The one who watches.”

Travis’s mouth has gone dry. The look in his eyes…

Something is different. It’s him. But at the same time, it’s not. He’s…altered. 

“You’re scaring the shit out of me,” Travis says.

Arthur doesn’t seem to hear him. Those wide, over-bright eyes stare straight through him. “He can’t even cry anymore. He’s breaking apart. And it’s too late to stop it.”

Panic clenches a fist around his chest. “No.” Travis’s grip on his shirt tightens. “Listen to me. Look at me and listen. It’s not too late. You’re not—”

The door to the lobby creaks open. They both freeze. Travis looks to the side and sees a pretty young black woman standing there with a bag of groceries, a little girl next to her, holding her hand.

Travis makes a choked sound.

The woman drops the bag of groceries. Her face goes blank.

No one moves.

Travis wonders how this must look. Him standing here, still clutching the front of Arthur’s shirt, Arthur’s back pressed against the wall, both of them soaking wet. Travis’s wrist is still bleeding—his forehead, too. His face throbs where Arthur punched him; he barely felt it when it happened, but he’s probably gonna have a bruise. If he doesn’t already.

The little girl stares at them. Her eyes are huge but strangely unafraid. “Hello,” she says.

The woman takes a step backwards, toward the door. “What’s going on here?” Her gaze focuses on Arthur’s face, and bewilderment swims across her expression. “Arthur? Are you—?”

Arthur giggles shrilly. “Oh, hi, Sophie. We’re fine. Everything’s fine. Will you give us a minute?”

Sophie’s eyes dart from Travis to Arthur and back again. Her hand tightens on the little girl’s hand. She quickly backs away, tugging the girl along. They disappear out the front door, back into the sleet-filled night, leaving the spilled bag of groceries on the floor.

“Shit,” Travis mutters. He loosens his grip on Arthur’s shirt.

“I hope I didn’t scare the little girl,” Arthur murmurs. His voice sounds suddenly smaller. More subdued.

“She seemed fine. We, uh—we should get out of the lobby, though.”

Arthur is hunched over, shoulders tense, his breathing strained.

Travis looks around, wondering what to do, where to go. His nerves are a crawling nest of ants under his skin. On impulse, he pulls Arthur toward the elevator. “Come on. Which floor?”

In slow, mechanical movements, Arthur raises one arm and pushes the button for the third floor. They get in and ride up in silence. The elevator creaks and groans like a wounded thing. Arthur stands in the corner, arms wrapped around himself, soaking wet and trembling.

Probably, they should’ve left the building. Travis wasn’t thinking very clearly. It’s hard to think right now.

He glances down at his own wrist, at the ragged teeth-marks in his skin. The bleeding has stopped, but it hurts like a bitch.

The elevator groans again, then stops. But the doors don’t open. They’re between floors.

“Fuck,” Travis says.

“It does this sometimes,” Arthur mutters. “It’ll start up again.” He remains rigid and still in the corner, water dripping from his wet hair and clothes.

Something has shifted, since the woman and the little girl left. Travis has the sense that Arthur’s… _himself_ again. But there’s an alarming vacancy in his expression.

“Hey,” Travis says.

Arthur doesn’t respond. His lips are moving silently, like he’s talking to himself. Slowly, he lifts his fists to his temples.

_His mind is collapsing all around me,_ Arthur said. Talking about himself.

He lost his mother. He lost everything. He’s clinging to the edge of a cliff.

Travis steps toward him. “Hey,” he says again. He reaches out and tentatively touches Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur flinches. His teeth clench, jaws locking tight against a laugh. A thin whine escapes him. “Don’t look at me.” He covers his face.

Travis’s arms surround him, pulling him close. Arthur's muscles stiffen. Travis rubs his skinny back in slow, up-and-down movements. He’s shaking so hard. His heart races, rattling around in his ribcage. “I’m here,” Travis murmurs.

“Travis. Oh god.” His voice sounds small. Lost. “How could I _forget_ something like that?”

“You did what you had to, to stay sane.”

“She’s gone.”

“I’m here. I got you.”

“I killed her. I killed my mom.”

“No. No, Arthur.” Travis’s hand slides into his hair, holding Arthur’s head to his shoulder. “You didn’t do that. She had a stroke. It just happened.”

“You don’t know. You don’t _know._ ” His breathing quickens. He starts to pull away, panic glazing his eyes.

Travis pulls him close again, holds him tighter. “Shh. Just hold still.”

“I’m—” he gulps in air. He seems to be struggling to breathe. “I’m bad. I’m bad, I’m bad, I’m bad, I’m—”

“Shhh.” He strokes Arthur’s hair. “Shh. No. You’re not bad.”

Arthur wrenches free and slams his head into the nearest wall. Once, twice, a third time. Travis drags Arthur into his arms again, trapping him there. "Easy. Easy, easy."

Arthur struggles a moment longer, then goes limp. He buries his face against Travis’s chest, laughing and crying softly. Travis just holds him. He doesn’t know what else to do. The elevator remains motionless. Travis just keeps holding him, murmuring into his ear. "Good...take it easy...that's it." He loses track of what he's saying. Just keeps repeating the same phrases over and over, until Arthur's strangled laugh-sobs taper off, and the only sound is their quiet, mingled breathing.

“She lied to me,” Arthur says. His voice is flat. Lifeless. “I remember that now, too.”

Travis says nothing. Just listens.

“She adopted me. She never told me. I saw the file, in Arkham…after the stroke. She let awful things happen to me when I was little.” His tone remains empty. Mechanical. “Everything about my life was a lie. None of it meant anything.” His body shudders with a gasp of laughter. “And now—”

“Remember the Ferris wheel?”

Arthur falls silent.

Travis rests his cheek atop Arthur’s head. “We could see the whole city. All the buildings, beneath us.”

Arthur’s raspy breathing shudders through the elevator. “You were scared,” he whispers.

“Yeah. I was. But you held me.” He keeps rubbing Arthur’s back. He can feel the shape of his bones through his loose, sleet-sodden clothes, the curve of his spine. “You were nice to me. You calm my soul, Arthur. And that story you told me…about the kid in the hospital, and how hard you tried to make him laugh…that wasn’t a lie. Was it?”

“He never laughed. Not once. I failed.”

“No. You didn’t.” His fingers make small circles on Arthur’s scalp. “You were there.”

Arthur is silent. His face remains hidden against Travis’s chest. “I don’t understand you,” he whispers. “You keep confusing me.”

Travis hesitates. “What do you need right now? What can I do to help you?”

Arthur’s hands clench on Travis’s shirt. “Hold me.” His voice is very soft. Almost inaudible. “Just…keep holding me. Please. Don’t let go.”

Travis holds him closer. “I won’t let you go. No matter what.”

Arthur hiccups a few times. He’s still shivering.

Travis keeps holding him, petting and kissing him. He sways gently, rocking him back and forth, murmuring into Arthur’s ear. “I love you. I love you, Arthur, I love you.”

Arthur’s face is still pressed up against his chest. His one visible eye squeezes shut. He clings so tight. Like a drowning man in a storm on the ocean, clinging to a piece of driftwood.

Even if that’s all he is—something warm and solid to cling to—Travis is okay with that.

He’s spent most of his life in the darkness, wandering. Never knowing where he was headed. For a while, he chased after a vision of light. Tried to climb toward it. But it kept receding farther away from him. And now…

He’s still in the dark. But he’s found someone else here. Someone like him. He never knew how warm the darkness could be.

It’s enough. If they can just have this, he thinks, it’s enough.

The elevator jerks, shudders, and begins moving again. Arthur pulls back and wipes one sleeve across his wet face. He seems off-balance. Dazed. But calmer.

“You were right,” Travis says. “It started up again on its own.”

“It does that a lot.” He stares at the wall. “It’s old. Everything in this building is old. A repairman was supposed to come out last month, but he never did.” His voice sounds strangely normal. “This place has been falling apart for as long as I can remember. But we always made do. We…” He trails off. Presses his lips together.

The elevator stops, and the doors slide open.

* * *

Arthur’s ears ring as they step out, into the narrow hallway. He stands with his arms wrapped tightly around himself, gaze fixed on his shoes. Travis hovers uncertainly nearby.

Where do they go from here?

_Penny is dead._ That thought keeps rising to the top of his mind. It’s hard to think about anything else. Over and over, he sees her collapsing. Sees her face go slack and empty.

Arthur’s memory has always been slippery. There are gaps in his past. Foggy spots. So much of his life exists in a kind of dream-like, ambiguous state. He knows there are many things he’s willed himself to forget. Because that was the only way he could survive.

But to shut away something like _that…_

It makes him wonder what else he might have forgotten.

He remembers calling Travis. Remembers waiting at the phone booth, riding in the taxi to Travis’s apartment, and everything that came after. But the timeline of the past few days before that is a bit…muddled. There are fragments. But he can’t piece them together.

There was something else. Something happened after his mother’s death.

Arthur giggles and claps his hand over his mouth. He sways a little.

Travis catches hold of his waist, steadying him. “You okay?” A pause. “Stupid question. I know.”

Arthur blinks a few times. “I feel funny.”

_Of course you feel funny_. _You're unraveling._

He wobbles on his feet again. The ringing in his ears gets louder. Everything feels…off. Distorted. Like he’s trapped in a dream. _'Twas brillig and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe..._ “Can you hear my thoughts?”

Travis frowns. “No. I can’t.”

“I feel like my thoughts are really loud right now." _All mimsy were the borogoves..._ "You…you’d tell me if you could hear them. Right?”

“I swear, if I ever start hearing your thoughts, I’ll tell you right away.”

“Okay.” He nods once. “Thanks.” He rubs his forehead. _And the mome raths outgrabe._

Travis clears is throat. “You, uh. You wanna go to your apartment? So we can talk in private.”

Arthur draws in his breath—a short, sharp inhalation. An inexplicable dread creeps over him like a shadow. The muscles in his stomach tighten. “I don’t…think we should go in there.”

“Why not?” Silence. “Arthur?” He sounds worried, now.

“I think…” His voice wobbles. The corners of his mouth twitch upward, turn down, then pull up again. Like there’s a puppeteer pulling strings, trying to make him smile. _Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite..._ “I think there’s something in there." _The claws that catch._ "Something you probably shouldn’t see.”

Travis approaches. His hands settle on Arthur’s thin shoulders. “Tell me,” he says, his voice gentle but firm.

“I don’t _know_. I don’t remember. It’s just...a feeling.”

There’s a long pause. “If there _is_ somethin’ in there, we should know what it is.”

Arthur stares at his feet. His head buzzes dully. Bits and pieces of the silly nonsense poem keep looping through his brain. _The jaws that bite, the claws that catch._ What comes next? Something about a Bandersnatch.

He’s barely holding onto sanity. The memory of his mother’s death nearly shook him apart. The grief is fresh and raw and overpowering. He feels split open, his innards exposed.

Even more frightening than the grief, though, is the relief—a shadowy joy lurking in the back of his brain. _You’re free,_ it whispers. _Nothing matters now. The world is burning. You’re free. Callooh Callay!  
_

The _Arthur_ in the front of his mind, the one sitting directly behind his eyes—the one who’s dwelt there for most of his life, observing the world, reacting, deciding, smiling or crying, wanting love, wanting to be recognized—that Arthur has been reduced to a few tattered, bloody scraps. But behind him looms another. A flame, twisting and dancing in the darkness, growing brighter with each moment. For so long that other presence was only a tiny bright speck, a spark. Now it feels like an inferno.

_I went into the apartment yesterday, before we went to the park. I got the gun. Didn’t I? What happened? What did I see?_

He’s having trouble remembering, now. He knows that he didn’t actually talk to his mother up there, even if that was what he told Travis—told _himself—_ at the time. She was already dead.

Everything is so mixed up.

The Other knows, he thinks. The presence in the back of his head—he could explain everything. But there will be a cost.

If he goes into his apartment now…

He doesn’t know how to explain any of this to Travis. His tongue feels like a block of wood. He just knows—the way you just know things in dreams, sometimes—that it will be better for both of them if they turn around and walk away. Now.

But maybe he wants to see what lies beyond the looking glass. There’s a hungry, morbid curiosity—an eager itch. The fear is stronger. But just barely.

“Let me go in first,” Travis says. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”

After a moment, Arthur nods.

“Which one’s yours?”

Arthur points to a door.

“Give me the keys.”

Arthur places them in his palm without looking up. Travis approaches. Unlocks the door. Pushes it open.

An unpleasant smell—vaguely rotten, vaguely sweet—wafts from within: the unmistakable smell of decomposing meat.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Generalized content warning for this chapter, since it gets pretty dark.

Shit, Travis thinks.

He hangs back, breathing shallowly. He’s not looking forward to this. But it won’t get easier if he waits.

Focus on the next minute, he thinks. The next step. 

He pushes the door open, revealing a cozy, cheerful living room with paintings hanging on the walls. Arthur’s apartment. The place he lives. It’s nicer than Travis’s. Just as small, but someone’s obviously put a lot of care and thought into decorating it. He wonders if it was Arthur or his mom who chose the paintings, the furniture.

There’s a splotch of something reddish-brown, long since dried, on the carpet, and a smear of it leading out of the room, down a hallway.

He glances at Arthur, who’s still standing there, hugging himself, looking small and crumpled.

“You don’t remember what this is from?” Travis asks.

Arthur shakes his head.

For a moment, Travis wonders if he should go in alone. Tell Arthur to wait here.

But Arthur’s in an unpredictable state right now—raw, wounded, half-shattered. Travis is afraid to leave him by himself, even for a minute. They have to face this together.

He approaches and takes Arthur’s arm. “Let’s go.”

Arthur’s face twitches. He raises his head. His nostrils flare, taking in that rotten-meat smell. The corners of his lips pull upward again. “Nn…” He presses a hand to his mouth. Travis can see the panic creeping in around the edges of his eyes.

“I’ll be there with you,” Travis says. “Just stay close to me.”

After a moment, Arthur nods. He allows Travis to guide him into the apartment. Travis carefully closes the door behind them and turns the latch-lock. They follow the smeared blood-trail down the hall, to the bathroom. Travis pushes the door open, and the smell gets stronger. Undeniable.

Another streak of reddish brown on the tiles leads to the bathtub, currently obscured by a shower curtain.

Arthur hangs back. Travis releases his arm and takes a cautious step forward, into the bathroom. He pulls the curtain aside.

In the tub is a dead body: a large, stout man with thinning hair and a pair of scissors jammed deep into his right eye. A few flies buzz around. One crawls across the man’s cheek and into his mouth, which is frozen open in a silent scream.

It’s strangely anticlimactic. As soon as that smell hit him, he knew there would be a body; seeing it is just confirmation. He has no idea who this guy even is.

When he looks over his shoulder, Arthur’s eyes are open, staring blankly at the corpse.

“Arthur,” Travis says.

He doesn’t respond immediately. He blinks a few times.

“Hey…”

“I did this,” Arthur says, his tone distant and flat. “I remember now.”

“Who was he?” Travis asks. He’s surprised at how calm he sounds.

“Randall,” Arthur murmurs.

“So you knew him?”

“He—we worked together. At Ha-Ha’s.”

The scissors…that detail bothers him, more than anything. It’s one thing to shoot someone. Just pull the trigger. A kid can do it. Travis was little more than a kid himself, when he was sent to ‘Nam and made his first kill.

Jamming a blade into an eyeball feels more primal, more animalistic. He can see another stab wound in the guy’s neck, deep and ragged. Blood soaks his shirt.

He’s just now starting to get a handle on how bad Arthur’s downward spiral was, after they parted ways that first time. 

_He lost his mother. Killed this guy. And then he made himself forget it all._

“Guess no one’s called the cops,” Travis says. “I mean, if he’s still here.”

“He died fast," Arthur says in that monotone, disconnected voice. "He didn’t even have time to scream.”

A fly crawls along the scissors, down to the edge of the man’s ravaged eye socket, where the metal is caked and crusted with dried gore.

The smell’s starting to get to him. Travis gags a little and covers his mouth and nose with one hand. 

He pulls the curtain shut, hiding the body, and walks out of the bathroom. Arthur lingers, staring at the dried bloodstains on the floor. “Come on,” Travis says.

Arthur doesn’t move. “I don't remember putting him in the bathtub.”

“We should close the door.”

Arthur steps out of the bathroom, and Travis shuts the door. It helps dampen the stink. Not a lot, though. 

He takes Arthur’s arm again. Arthur allows himself to be led back into the living room.

Travis places his hands gently on Arthur’s shoulders. “I’m gonna ask you a few questions.”

Arthur nods, his face still blank. He still seems detached, shell-shocked, and Travis wonders if it’s a good idea to probe him now. But he needs to know everything. He needs to get a handle on the situation—what Arthur has done, and what’s going on inside him.

“How did this happen?” Travis keeps his voice low. Steady.

“He came here. T-to talk to me. He was asking all these questions, asking if I talked to the police, what I told them. And…I don’t know. I panicked, I guess."

"You guess?"

"Some parts are still fuzzy.”

“He was alone?”

A pause. “Yes.” 

“Okay.” He braces himself. His hands tighten a little on Arthur’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, but I gotta ask. Has there been anyone else? Anyone I don’t know about?”

Arthur’s thick brows knit together, the skin between them bunching into little furrows. “Other people I’ve killed, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

The corners of his mouth twitch. “I guess I might’ve assassinated a few politicians along the way. I’m having trouble keeping track, honestly.” At Travis’s blank stare, Arthur says softly, “It’s a joke.”

He made a joke after the last kill too, Travis recalls. Seems to be his way of coping. “No one else, then?”

“No.” After a few seconds, he adds in an almost inaudible voice, “No one that I remember.”

That’ll have to do, for now.

Focus, he thinks. Next step.

“We should get outta here. I mean, especially considering that lady who saw us in the lobby…”

“Oh yeah. Sophie.” Arthur laughs and clamps a hand over his mouth. He lowers it a few seconds later. His mouth moves. He’s whispering. Travis can’t make out the words very well. From what little he can hear, it just sounds like nonsense.

“Hey.” Travis grips his chin, lifting it. “Stay with me.”

Arthur blinks a few times. Then he grins. Travis knows he does that when he’s nervous, but still—he has to admit, under the circumstances, it’s unsettling. “Sorry. I keep…slipping.”

“We have to go. We shouldn’t come back here after this. Anything you need to grab?”

“I…think I need to change.”

At first, Travis wants to argue that they should just leave—go back to his apartment, or anywhere there’s not a dead body rotting in the tub, and change there—but Arthur’s clothes are soaked. He’s probably freezing. “I’ll wait out here. Don’t take too long. Okay?”

“Okay.”

* * *

_As in uffish thought he stood, the Jabberwock with eyes of flame came whiffling through the tulgey woods…_

Stop it, Arthur thinks at his own brain. Stop.

Why _that_ poem? He memorized it once—for a clowning gig—but that was months ago. And now it’s lodged itself in his head. It’s stuck on loop. Maybe it’s just his mind’s way of trying to drown out everything else.

Once he’s alone in the bedroom, he smacks his palm against his forehead a few times, trying to shut up the voice reciting poetry. The image of Randall’s corpse keeps floating up behind his eyes. The open mouth, the scissors.

_We stuck him good, didn’t we?_

Stop it.

_Flesh is so soft. So fragile. That’s the secret of the world. Sticking the scissors into his brain was like sliding a spoon into a bowl of oatmeal. His eyeball popped like a grape, like a water balloon. So easy. Even with that skinny little arm of yours._

He shuts his eyes. “Randall didn’t deserve to die,” he mutters.

_Oh please._

“He…he wasn’t a good person. I’m not saying he was. But he didn’t deserve that. He gave me a gun, that’s all.”

_And then lied about it to save his own ass._

Yes. But even if he'd told the truth, it probably wouldn't have changed anything. Arthur would've lost his job, regardless. He’s the one who brought the gun into the kids' hospital. The one who pulled the trigger, on the subway. He can’t pin that all on Randall.

_Those details are a little beside the point now, aren't they? He's dead. You're alive. Enjoy it.  
_

It’s not that simple. He knows that. The police are after him. If he checks the answering machine, he’s certain, he will find multiple messages asking him if he has time to answer a few questions. Sooner or later, they’ll come here, knocking on the door.

And Travis…

He stares into space, breathing raggedly.

_He's taking this pretty well, isn't he? Almost too well. So what's the problem?  
_

He thinks about Travis’s smooth young face, his strong, calloused hands.

_You’re scared he’ll leave you? Is that it?_

No. Not exactly. He _is_ afraid of that, but that’s not the heart of his fear. He was prepared to leave Travis behind him, after all.

_Then what? Are you afraid you’ll dirty him? His hands are already dirtier than yours. If you’re damned, then so is he._

“I don’t want to…h-hurt him,” Arthur whispers.

_He fell in love with you when he saw you shoot a man. Why are you trying to protect him from your darkness?_

“He doesn’t know…”

_About me? He knows—even if he doesn’t know what he knows. He can see me staring out from behind your eyes. You are transparent to him, like water. He wants to swim in you. To drown, maybe._

He thinks about the first time he saw Travis. In the tunnel, holding a finger to his head like a gun. And Arthur holding a real gun—albeit an unloaded one—to his own head. That was where they found each other. At the bottom.

But if there’s anything life has taught Arthur, it’s that no matter how far you fall, you can always fall farther.

He thinks about the fly crawling along the blood-crusted edge of Randall’s eye-socket. And he feels himself sliding back, back, back.

Maybe Travis _thinks_ he understands. But there's just so much. So much pain. So much darkness. If he knew the full truth, he would run away.

Maybe that would be better.

Arthur tries to hold on. But the ground is crumbling beneath him. He no longer remembers what he’s holding on for, when it feels so good to let go. 

He’s supposed to be changing, isn’t he?

His gaze falls on the dresser. On the jar of greasepaint.

* * *

Travis sits on the living room couch, waiting. His head throbs. The smell makes it worse.

He's had a lot of practice shutting images out of his head, focusing on the moment. Compartmentalizing. He can avoid thinking about the guy in the tub. But the smell is harder to ignore. It presses insistently against the edges of his mind, wriggling in through the cracks in his mental armor. That was the thing that bothered him most about New York, too; the smell. How inescapable it was. Even alone in his apartment with the windows shut, it was there.

Arthur’s been in the bedroom for a few minutes now. Should he check on him?

He notices a brown notebook on the coffee table. On impulse, he picks it up and leafs through it. It’s filled with Arthur’s scrawled, messy writing. He sees drawings too, and magazine photos pasted in. Naked women with their faces scribbled out, women with skulls for heads, drawings of guns and knives, screaming faces. Probably the sort of thing Travis would draw, if he was any good at drawing.

A lot of cats, too, for some reason. Maybe Arthur just likes cats. 

His gaze latches onto a phrase in the middle of a page: _I just hope my death makes more cents than my life._

Travis flips through more pages, finds the most recent entries:

_I hate throwing out food. Mom always told me not to waste. Food costs money. But there was an egg in the frige which had gotten cracked. It had been sitting there in the back for a long time and when I opened it the insides were black and moldy and it smelled bad. So I had to throw it out. You cant make an egg un-rotten._

And the one after that, the last entry:

_I had a dream that we were Bonny and Clyde. I had a dream that you were a cowboy and I was your horse and you rode me into the sunset. I dreamed that there was a zipper running down the back of my hed and along my spine and another man came to me in the darkness and unzipped me and climed inside me and wore me. His fingers were inside my fingers and his eyes were looking through my eyes. It hurt, but I cudnt stop smiling.  
_

_I was never ment to eggsist. I am here by mistake. I am just taking up space now. I will never be more than a stane._

_But I do eggsist. I do._

_And Im going to show them._

He hears music. From down the hall. A record playing. A man’s voice sings: “That’s life…and as funny as it may seem…”

Slowly, Travis puts the notebook down. Somehow, the sound of music, in that moment, is more disconcerting than anything else he's encountered today. It throws him off.

“Some people get their kicks…stomping on a dream…”

He stands and follows the music down the hall, to the bedroom.

Arthur is sitting in front of a dresser. He’s shucked off his wet jacket and shirt, stripped down to his jeans, and he’s applying white makeup to his face with a brush.

“Arthur,” Travis says. “What are you doing?”

Arthur’s gaze catches his in the mirror. “I’m changing. Like I said.”

Travis lifts the needle off the record player, silencing the music. “We need to leave.”

“What’s your rush? Haven’t you ever heard the phrase, ‘Stop and smell the roses?’ Or I guess…the body. In this case.” He opens his mouth and laves his tongue with paint. He paints another streak onto his jawline, still humming along with the music, though it’s no longer playing.

This...doesn't seem good.

Travis approaches slowly. He stands behind Arthur, looking at his face in the mirror. Arthur’s gaze meets his in the reflection.

“What?” he says. He traces a blue diamond around one eye. “You like me in my paint. Don’t you?”

“Snap out of it,” Travis says.

Arthur fills in the diamond, then sets the brush down.

He rises to his feet and turns toward Travis. Scraggly hair hangs down around his ghostly white face, with that single blue diamond framing his right eye. His breathing is rapid, his skin flushed where it’s not covered by paint, his eyes sparkly with that strange over-brightness.

He’s shifted again. He’s…heightened.

“Snap out of what?” he asks.

“You’re not yourself right now.”

“Oh, but I am. I’m more myself than I’ve ever been.” He smiles, pulls a cigarette from a pack on the desk and lights it. His lips mold themselves around the end of the slim cylinder, and the end glows as he sucks air in. There’s an easy grace to his movements, the slowness and stiffness gone. 

They stare at each other.

Normally, Arthur avoids eye contact, or only maintains it for a second or two at a time. His eyes are always fluttering and flickering around, hiding beneath the curtain of his lashes or darting to the sides as though to search for possible escape routes. Now, he stares directly at Travis. Unwavering.

He exhales a cloud of smoke. “You know, for so many years, I believed that my laughing was a condition. That there was something wrong with me. There isn’t. This is who I am.” He takes a step closer. “I can see so much more clearly, now.”

“We gotta go. Wipe that stuff off your face and put a dry shirt on.”

Arthur drops the lit cigarette to the floor and places a hand on Travis’s chest, still smiling. “It was fun,” he says. “Killing Randall. I had fun.”

Travis’s pulse quickens.

_He’s dreaming awake right now. In a trance. Or something.  
_

No—that isn’t quite right.

The phrase _off the deep end_ flickers through his head. They say that about people who’ve lost their mind. It’s curiously apt. Arthur has gone deep. Submerged.

“He was the one, you know,” Arthur says. “Randall. He gave me the gun. He was trying to get me fired. Or hoping I’d blow my own brains out, maybe.” He giggles. “Or maybe he didn’t have a plan. Maybe he really wanted to help me. Who knows? Not like we can ask him, now.” He runs one finger along the edge of a button on Travis's shirt.

Travis looks lower and sees and erection tenting Arthur’s jeans. He swallows, throat tight.

Arthur’s gaze meets his again. The smile remains in place. “Are you scared?”

Travis doesn’t answer. 

“I wouldn’t blame you. I didn’t _have_ to kill Randall, you know. He wasn’t really a threat. I just wanted to.” 

“You—you’d just lost your mother." His voice emerges hoarse and weak. "You were confused. You were in pain—”

“Poor little Arthur. He’s just a victim. He can’t help himself. Is that what you need to believe? Maybe it’s what I needed to tell myself, for a while. But I’m beyond that, now.” He takes another step closer. “Are you still going to make excuses for me?”

Travis thinks about that moment in the elevator, when he held Arthur close. He remembers Arthur’s voice saying, _Don’t let go._ Pleading. That memory blasts the fog from his head, centers him.

He feels the weight of destiny on his shoulders. This is the moment. He is in the dragon’s lair, about to put his life on the line to save the princess, like in those old stories. Except now, the dragon and the princess are one. And he has no sword. Only words. He's never been good with words.

Arthur is dangerous, in this state; it would be naïve to pretend otherwise. Yet he is the one Travis must save.

He promised not to let go. He doesn’t intend to.

He thinks about that moment, after he shot the last man in that filthy apartment in New York. Iris sobbing quietly, brokenly. He remembers putting the gun under the shelf of his chin, pulling the trigger, feeling it click empty, slumping onto the couch, bloodstained and numb. Staring into the eyes of a policeman, raising one finger to his head and miming a gunshot. Wanting it all to be over. In that moment, could anyone have said anything to him that would’ve made a difference?

Arthur licks his white-painted lips, stands on tiptoe, and drapes his arms around Travis’s shoulders. His eyes have grown soft and smoky. His lips part, and Travis realizes that Arthur is about to kiss him. He blocks his lips with a finger.

“What's wrong?"

Is Arthur _trying_ to scare him? Or maybe he’s just careening through the darkness, grasping blindly. “I’m gonna take you away from this place," Travis says. "Put a shirt on."

“Such a square. You still think you need to _save_ me, don’t you? I’ve already saved myself. I’ve killed all the people who hurt me. I don’t need you riding in on a white horse. However, if you want to play…” He leans in again, his breath feathering against Travis’s lips. He smells like cigarettes, with a hint of blood. “I could use a playmate.”

Travis places a hand on his chest, trying to push him away, to put some distance between them so he can think clearly. But Arthur clings tighter, pressing up against him. And Travis feels a stirring beneath his belly. His breathing quickens. No, he thinks. He's not getting a hard-on; he can't be. Not with the smell of death in the air.

_Focus._ There is a way to reach Arthur, if only he can find it. “Just a few minutes ago, in the elevator, you were holding onto me and begging me not to let you go. You were crying. Do you remember?”

  
“I remember.” He’s so close. So warm. “You liked that, didn’t you? I could beg some more.” He stands up on tiptoe and breathes into Travis’s ear: “Please hold me. Help me, Travis. I need you.”

Even if he’s playing, it doesn’t sound like an act. There’s an ache, a desperation in his voice. It breaks a little on the word _need._

“Please.” Arthur’s breathing quickens. “Save me. You’re the only one who can save me now. Please…”

That voice…that soft, hungry little voice saying _please_ …

Arthur chuckles. “There you are.”

Travis gulps.

Well, he learned something new about himself today: that he can get an erection even with a corpse rotting less than twenty feet away. It’s not a fact that he likes. But he doesn’t avert his eyes from it.

Arthur undoes the first button of Travis’s shirt and touches a finger to the hollow between his collarbones. “I can feel your pulse.” He pushes a little harder. “So fast.” 

Travis’s breathing hitches. But he manages to keep his voice steady, more or less: “You know I’m not gonna fuck you. Not now, not like this.”

“No?”

Travis closes his eyes. Breathes. Then opens them again.

“It’s like I told you before,” Travis says. “It’s a drug, killing. You can get hooked on it. But then the rush fades and you’re left with yourself. And it just hurts more.” He touches Arthur’s cheek. “I didn’t want to leave you alone. I was afraid this would happen.”

“Don’t act so noble, my dear. You _like_ this. You like seeing me unravel. Seeing what I’ve become. You don’t need to be ashamed.”

Travis’s jaw tightens. “This isn’t what I wanted.”

“Oh?” He’s panting in quick, shallow breaths. Wetness shines in his eyes, but his grin widens. “Well then, you’d better run while you still can. I can get so much nastier, you know. You haven't seen anything yet. But if this isn't what you want...the door’s right there. Just push me away and walk out. I won’t try to stop you.”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere."

"Are you sure about that?"

"If I leave you, you’re gonna turn yourself in.”

“Maybe. Who knows? I’m crazy. I could do anything. Anything at all.”

He grabs Travis’s shirt with both hands and rips. Two of the buttons pop off. Arthur rakes his nails down Travis’s bare chest, leaving long red lines.

Travis groans. His dick—still hard—twitches against Arthur’s groin. But he doesn't move. Doesn't push Arthur away.

Arthur laughs, breathless. “You like a little pain?” He leans in and breathes into his ear, “It hurt when you fucked me in the ass. It burned. I felt like I was splitting open. But I liked that. I liked the darkness in your eyes, too.” He trails a finger down Travis’s chest. “You could take me apart, piece by piece.”

“Damn it, Arthur—”

“That’s why you like me, isn’t it? That’s what this is all about.”

Travis goes still. “That’s not what it’s about," he says in a low, cold voice.

“Don’t lie to yourself. You were thinking about it from the moment you laid eyes on me.”

The pulse thunders in his head.

“It’s all right,” Arthur says, his voice softening. He trails his fingers through Travis’s hair. “I don’t mind. I can be what you want. Your little bloodstained whore. Your broken toy. You can hurt me. I deserve it, after all. Just look at me, at the things I've done—”

He grips a fistful of Arthur’s hair. “Don’t.” His voice comes out cold and flat. “Don’t talk about yourself that way. Do you hear me?”

“If you don’t like it, then shut me up.”

“ _Stop it."  
_

“You want it. You want to stick that big thick cock in me over and over until your cum is all the way down in my filthy little soul—”

Travis grabs him by the arms, hard. And suddenly they’re wrestling, vying for control, Arthur twisting in his grip like a feral cat. He lashes out, one blunt nail catching Travis's cheek, scratching a line down his cheekbone. Arthur's foot slips, and they tumble to the floor, Travis on top of him.

Arthur arches beneath him, rubbing against him.

“Get a hold of yourself, dammit,” Travis pants. 

Arthur laughs.

Travis has never seen him this unhinged before. His eyes are huge and brilliant, bulging out slightly, the whites bloodshot.

Travis grabs his face. “Listen. You’re havin’ a breakdown—”

Arthur seizes his shirt and pulls. Another button pops off. His teeth are bared in a grin. "Aren't you going to run?"

"No."

He’s still laughing. Wild, shrill, breathless. He knocks his head against Travis’s chest.

Travis grips Arthur’s throat—not hard enough to do any damage, but hard enough to anchor his head in place, on the floor. His palm presses down on the trachea. Arthur’s pulse jumps under his thumb.

A shiver runs through Arthur’s body. “Oh. You want it like this?” Arthur’s voice-box vibrates beneath his palm.

Travis’s hand tightens around his throat.

“Do it,” he grits out between clenched teeth. Drool glistens at the corner of his mouth, rabid dog flecks of foam. “Fucking _do_ it.”

He doesn’t know whether Arthur is telling him to fuck him or kill him. 

And something snaps.

Travis kisses him. Hard. Arthur thrashes beneath him, biting at his lips. Travis tastes the copper of his own blood. He bits down on Arthur’s lower lip just as fiercely, and Arthur shudders, eyes rolling back in his head, body arching up and thrashing like a loose power line.

Then they’re wrestling again, and Arthur is on top of him, his hard dick against Travis’s stomach, his hands around Travis’s throat, Travis’s hand still locked around Arthur’s as they writhe and grind against each other. Arthur’s chalk-white face floats in his vision, wreathed in light.

Christ, Travis thinks.

Are they going to fuck, after all? Right here on the floor, with the stink of decaying flesh in the air? Or is Arthur just going to murder him with his bare hands?

_Worse ways to go_.

A strange sense of peace descends. His body keeps struggling. But his mind goes fuzzy and loose.

Arthur’s surprisingly strong. His fingers dig into Travis’s throat. They’re going to leave bruises. It’s hard to get a full breath; gray spots flicker at the edge of his vision.

A tear drips from Arthur’s eye, onto his cheek.

_He’s crying._ Arthur is crying.

In a burst of adrenaline, he flips Arthur over onto his back and pins him down. He seizes his thin wrists and locks them together over his head. His knees trap Arthur’s legs, holding him immobile.

Arthur puffs for breath, chest rising and falling, flushed and wild-eyed, lips stained with Travis’s blood. He bucks like a wild horse, trying to throw him. _God,_ he’s strong.

But in the end, Travis is stronger. He’s been training his body for years. Arthur is skin and bones and a few thin whipcords of muscle. He’s operating on pure adrenaline. Travis holds him down, riding him, until Arthur exhausts himself and goes limp, head tipped back, mouth open and gasping, a dark lock of hair stuck to the white greasepaint on his cheek. He’s laughing and crying at the same time. The wild gleam still burns in his eyes. Another blue-tinged tear quivers at the end of his lashes and slips down.

“Please,” Arthur moans. “Please…”

“What?”

“Run. Just...leave me.”

“No.”

He goes limp. “Then kill me.”

“No.”

“What's wrong with you?" Arthur's voice rises shrilly. "I tried to _strangle_ you."

“Yeah. You got a grip, I'll give you that."

"I tried to strangle you," he says again, in dazed shock, as though realizing it for the first time. “Oh god, Travis…your neck-”

“Can I let go of your wrists? Or are you gonna keep fighting me?”

Arthur is silent for a long moment. His breathing shudders through the silence.

“Arthur. Answer.”

His chest heaves, his ribs straining against his skin. His lips move silently. More nonsense-words. Travis’s blood still stains his mouth. Travis licks his own lips and tastes Arthur's blood there.

It seems like the fight's gone out of him. Travis climbs to his feet, gripping Arthur's shoulders, and hauls him onto the bed. He holds him pinned there, standing over him, keeping his wrists behind his back. He hesitates, wondering for a moment what to do next. Then he lays down behind Arthur—spooning him—and wraps him in a firm embrace, trapping Arthur’s arms against his sides. He’s gone limp now, his bird-frail body motionless in Travis’s arms. His heart is racing. Travis can sense the nervous, restless energy still seething just beneath the surface. Arthur starts to squirm a little, making faint sounds in his throat, as though gearing up for another round of thrashing.

Travis speaks into his ear, his voice rough and hoarse: “Hold still."

Arthur's muscles go rigid.

"Don't struggle, and don't say anything. I’m going to talk into your ear like this for a few minutes. I won’t hurt you. I’m just going to talk. Understand? You can nod.”

Arthur hesitates, then gives a small nod. Travis can’t see his eyes. But he can see the outline of his profile, the flick of his lashes when he blinks.

“There's nothing left for you in this city, is there? Your mom is gone. The cops are after you. You're backed into a corner. Nowhere to go."

Arthur's lashes flick rapidly up and down.

"I know you already made up your mind to turn yourself in, tell the world what you did. Make them see you before they lock you in a dark cage forever, with me safe on the outside. That's what this is about, isn't it? If I were a better man I’d let you do that. Let you choose your own path, even if it's a dead end. But here's the truth. Here's what you don't get." His voice grows softer. "I’m a bigger monster than you’ll ever be, Arthur. I don’t care what’s right or wrong. I won’t let them have you. I’ve seen Arkham, and I know that place left scars in you. Deep scars. I won’t let you go back there. Even if it means that you keep killing, I'll never let that happen.”

Silence.

Travis's arms tighten around him. He places his lips directly against Arthur’s ear and whispers—faintly, so faintly that even someone standing a few feet away would be unable to make out the words—“I’m going to keep you.”

The air catches in Arthur’s throat.

Travis has him. He has Arthur’s soul in his hand, gripped tight, like a small animal—a mouse, maybe, or a bird. He feels its struggles cease. A shiver runs through Arthur's body, and his muscles loosen and relax.

He keeps his grip on Arthur, his chest pressed against Arthur’s back, arms locked tight around him. “You can talk now,” Travis says. “If you want.”

For a moment, Arthur doesn’t reply. Then he lets out a soft, croaking chuckle. "I'm a lost cause, you know.”

Travis rests his chin on Arthur’s shoulder. "I'm all about lost causes. Been one, myself."

“You must have a death wish. Clinging to me, even after..."

“No. I had a death wish before. I'm alive now. Feel my heart beating, Arthur. You woke me up.”

For a few minutes, they just lay there in silence, listening to each other’s heartbeats.

Slowly, Arthur reaches behind himself. He takes Travis’s wrist and pulls it up to the top of his head. “Feel that,” he whispers.

Travis pushes his fingers through Arthur’s hair. He can feel a rough ridge there. A scar. He’s noticed it before. “I feel it. What’s it from?”

“I don’t remember. I think—someone broke me open. Something got into me. It’s been in there ever since. There’s no getting it out now. Nothing makes sense. Nothing has ever made sense. All I can do is laugh.”

Travis rubs his fingertips slowly over the scar. Feeling every bump and ridge of it.

“My mother used to take me to church,” Arthur says. “We stopped going when it got too hard for her to leave the apartment. But we went for many years. And I remember how we would confess our sins. That was how you cleaned your soul out, she said. Like brushing your teeth. Getting all the dirty bits out before they could rot and spread. But I wonder…if you let it rot for too long…what then? I guess you have to start pulling teeth out.” His unsteady breaths echo through the silence. “Penny had a lobotomy, you know. They did that to her at Arkham. I saw it in her file, after the stroke. I think I only really started to understand her at the end, when it was too late.”

Travis’s hand remains where it is, resting on Arthur’s head, over his scar.

"They'd have to pull so much out, to fix me," Arthur whispers. “There'd be nothing left. I don’t know what salvation means for me. I think it can only mean disappearing.”

“I thought that once, too. And then I found you.” He strokes Arthur’s hair.

In the distance, Travis hears a siren. He tenses.

He wonders if that lady downstairs called the police, after all. 

“Hang on,” he mutters.

He stands, walks to the window, and peers out. He can’t see any police cars in the street outside, but who knows how long that’ll last.

Arthur sits up slowly. As though his movements hurt. Travis hears the creak of the bed.

He tenses slightly, instinctively...but remains as he is, facing the window, his back turned to Arthur. Travis is vulnerable like this, he knows—Arthur could decide to slam something into the back of his head and knock him out, then run off to the police station, hands held out for the cuffs.

But if he and Arthur are not going to trust each other from this point onward, there’s no point to any of this. So he remains as he is, staring out the window, leaving himself wide open to a sneak attack.

“I need a cigarette,” Arthur mutters. "I think that was the last one."

“Once we’re on the road, I’ll get you all the cigarettes you want.” Travis turns toward him. “Though…I gotta say. I’m a little worried about your lungs.”

Arthur lets out another choked laugh. He bows his head, rubs his forehead with his fingertips. “You’re weird.”

“Look who’s talkin’. Anything else you wanna grab before we go?”

Arthur bites his lower lip. “Clothes. My paint.”

Travis doesn’t ask why. “Okay.”

Arthur puts on a dry cardigan and a dry pair of jeans. He wipes his face with a hand-towel, throws some things into his duffel bag—the same one he had that night, when Travis first saw him in the subway tunnel. He remembers, in a flash, the sight of Arthur in his paint, hair disheveled, blood running from his nose, arm out stiffly as he stalked toward the screaming man on the stairs. The way that predatory glint in his gaze softened into a look of loneliness and confusion as he turned toward Travis.

Arthur stands, shoulders drawn in, both hands clutching the handle of the duffel bag in front of him. Traces of white paint still cling to his jaw. His big green eyes search Travis’s face. “Where will we go?” he asks quietly.

“We’ll figure that out.” Travis approaches, takes Arthur’s face between his hands, and kisses him. “Let’s just get out of here.”

“What about…” He trails off, his gaze flicking in the direction of the bathroom.

“Him? Nothing to do."

“Can we really just…leave him? I don’t know if he has any family or—anyone who’s missing him. I don’t think he was married or anything, but he probably has parents. They’re probably wondering where he is. And…the other guys at work…”

“There’s no way we can tell anyone about this,” Travis says. “Not without getting ourselves in hot water.” No way they can move the body out of the apartment without being seen, either. He briefly considers trying to dispose of it some other way, but the possibilities are too grisly and impractical. It’d be a waste of time.

Better they slip away now, while they have a chance. The police are already looking for Arthur. 

Of course, once those guys find Randall here, they’ll know that Arthur is the one who killed him. They'll put the pieces together, realize that he was responsible for the subway murders. If they don't already suspect. Arthur will be a wanted man...even more than before. They’ll put out an alert. So where will they go from here? Is anywhere safe?

He should probably be worried. But he’s not. He’s never felt calmer. Then again, Travis has always felt at his calmest—his most centered, his most determined—when he’s staring into the maw of death. Only on that bright, shining edge is he really alive.

The decision has been made. Whatever comes next, he accepts it. "Nothing to do," he says again.

"So we just walk out," Arthur says.

"Yeah."

He hesitates. "Travis?"

"What?"

"I love you."

Travis blinks a few times. Arthur wrote those words in the note he left. But they still catch him off guard. His eyes water, and his throat clenches. It takes him a moment to recover. He wraps his arms around Arthur and gives him a quick, firm squeeze. "Love you too."

He wants to hold him longer. But there's no time.

They walk out, leaving Randall in the bathtub.


	16. Chapter 16

Arthur watches the world glide pass outside the taxi window: streetlights and storefronts, piles of garbage, some of them on fire. It's morning, now. That surprises him. His sense of time has gone slippery.

He wonders if any of this is really happening. It feels like a dream. His gaze wanders to Travis. Red marks stand out on his throat where Arthur’s fingers squeezed. There’s a scratch visible on his cheek too—and more on his chest, though his jacket is zipped up now, hiding them. A ragged ring of tooth-marks stands out on his wrist; Arthur can see it peeking out from under his sleeve.

He’s covered with marks. All inflicted by Arthur. His emotions swing back and forth from horror to a strange, possessive satisfaction. He wants to run his tongue over the bite-mark.

A giggle creeps up his throat, and he chokes it down.

_He’s an outlaw now. Because of me._

Travis has made it clear that this is what he wants, and he’s a grown man, not a child. He knows his own mind. God knows Arthur has done everything possible to push him away, to save him, but Travis remains stubbornly by his side. Even so, the thought keeps rising in his head: _If they catch us and lock him up, it will be my fault._

If Arthur had just gone straight to the police station or to Arkham and turned himself in after fleeing Travis's apartment, none of this would have happened. Instead, Arthur stopped at the apartment—why? Because he wanted his paint, or so he told himself.

No. He knew that Travis would come there, chasing after him. He wanted to be chased.

The more Arthur learns about himself, the more he realizes just how self-centered he truly is. He wonders if the good man he tried to be, the identity he constructed over the years—the one who took care of his mother, the one who came to work on time and took his medication and wrote in his journal diligently and tried not to scare anyone or make anyone uncomfortable—is just a shell of rationalizations and self-deception.

_But if I lived as that person for years, is it really a lie?_

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says softly, “for hurting you.”

“Doesn’t hurt.”

“You don’t have to lie.”

“It’s the truth. Maybe it’s just the adrenaline. But I’m feelin’ all right.” Travis gives him a little one-sided smile. It makes him look younger, boyish. “How ‘bout you? How you holdin’ up?” 

“I feel…” _Scared. Confused. Free. Alive._ “I don’t know.” His gaze drifts back to the window.

They’re leaving today. It’s hard for him to wrap his head around the idea of just driving out of this city—the city he was born in, the city he’s lived in for forty-one years. He rests his forehead against the cool glass. His breath steams it up.

He remembers everything now. The truth is a mirror, reflecting his own face back at him with cruel clarity. There are no more excuses. He killed a man for no good reason. All right, he wasn’t at his most sane when he did it, but still. 

Travis knows all that. Arthur shoved his face in the truth, and still, he didn’t run. He clung tighter, even in the face of death.

Travis’s love for him is monstrous—a blind, irrational, ravenous, powerful thing. A towering, majestic, awe-inspiring thing. It is the sort of love that rampages through cities like a movie monster, like King Kong or Godzilla, the sort of love that devours anything in its path.

Arthur has never been loved like this before. He never believed that someone _could_ love him like this. He’s small, obscure, tired and faded—a timid mouse skittering along the edges of the world, a hazy smudge of a person, a face in the background, barely visible. Even as a killer, he is invisible to the world, his true actions and motivations blotted out by the sensationalist headlines, the image of a snarling clown.

Yet here he is, the focus of this mad, raging bonfire of love.

He has to admit—he likes it.

* * *

They stop in Travis’s apartment to grab some clothes, a few other essentials.

Arthur’s gaze focuses on Travis’s forehead. He reaches up again, touches the unbroken skin next to the cut. “This should be cleaned. Your wrist, too.”

“Don't worry about me.”

“I don’t want it to get infected.”

Travis hesitates, his gaze searching Arthur’s face. “Awright. I’ll clean it out. Just give me a minute.”

“No. Let me. I want to.” After a moment, he adds, “Please.”

His expression softens. "There's a first aid kit in the bathroom, beneath the sink.”

Arthur goes into the bathroom. He glances at the shower stall, and the image of Randall’s corpse flashes through his head. A shudder grips him—a shock of dark excitement. But beneath the wicked glee is a squirming, sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach.

_Why did I kill him?_

He finds himself replaying the incident in his head. He was in a bad state, at the time. He’d just lost his mother and discovered the ugly truths she’d been concealing from him his whole life. And then Randall showed up, sweaty and agitated, with a bottle of wine in his hand—a flimsy pretense that he was coming to console Arthur for his loss. But then, almost immediately, Randall started badgering him, asking questions: wanting to know if he’d talked to the cops, wanting to know what he’d said, wanting to know if he still had the gun, wanting to know if he told anyone where he got it.

Arthur didn’t want to talk. _Couldn’t_ talk. There was a hum in his head, blotting out his thoughts. He tried telling him to leave, but Randall just wouldn’t go.

_Hey Art, come on, you know you’re my boy. You can talk to me. Just tell me—what did you say to them? Did you say anything to Hoyt? What about Gary? You said something to Gary, didn’t you? Because he's acting weird around me now. What did you say? Just answer the fuckin' question. Are the cops gonna come knocking on my door, Art?_

He kept getting more and more insistent, grabbing Arthur by the shoulder, pushing and pushing, until…

Before he even knew what he was doing, he’d grabbed the scissors from the counter and they were in Randall’s neck, piercing his throat so he couldn’t scream.

Arthur twitches, fingers flexing and clenching. With an effort, he pulls himself back to the present. He feels the urge to smack his head against the nearest solid surface. Instead, he names as many objects in the room as he can: towel rack, faucet, soap, aftershave, toothbrush. Razor...

He rummages around in the bathroom cabinet for a moment and fishes out a battered and scratched metal box. Inside, he finds antiseptic, gauze and bandages. He grabs a folded hand towel, too, and wets it in the sink before returning to the living room.

“Sit,” Arthur says.

Travis sits obediently on the couch. Arthur begins carefully cleaning out the cut on his forehead. He wipes the dried, crusted blood away, swabs the spot with alcohol from the kit, and applies a bandage, then turns his attention to the bite on Travis’s wrist. His movements are careful and practiced. 

“You done this before?” Travis asks.

“Yes.”

“For who? Your—” he stops.

“My mom. Yeah.” His gaze remains focused on his task. “She was unsteady on her feet. Bad hips. Every so often, she lost her balance and took a spill. She’d get scratches or bruises. So I would bandage them. She would always pat my arm and say that she was lucky to have me. She…” His voice cracks a little. "Sometimes, she was so nice to me. It wasn't always that way. But when she was in a good mood..." He sniffles a little.

“You were a good son to her. I can tell.”

Arthur wishes he could believe that.

He carefully dabs Travis’s wrist clean. “This might sting.” He swabs on the antiseptic.

Travis flinches.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Arthur tapes some gauze over the marks, then stares at the floor. “I’ve killed five people now.”

“I killed six. I mean, it’s not a contest, but. I’m still walkin’ around, you know?”

Arthur blames himself for Penny's death, so maybe he's at six now, too. “It’s different. You were a hero. You saved someone.”

“You saved someone’s life, too. Your own. When you took out those first three, I mean.”

Arthur gives him a cracked smile. “I don’t think that counts.”

“Sure it does.” Travis takes his wrist in one hand, rubs his thumb over the veins showing through his pale skin. “You saved me, too.”

“I was just in the right place at the right time. That’s all.”

“It was more than that. You trusted me. Talked to me.” His thumb keeps rubbing slowly back and forth, over the faded ghosts of scars. He lifts Arthur’s wrist to his lips and presses a kiss to the hollow between the slender bones, where the blood thrums.

It takes Arthur a moment to find his voice. “I’m glad,” he whispers. “That we found each other.”

“Me too.” 

Arthur leans down, takes Travis’s face between his hands, and kisses his lips—a soft, lingering kiss. Travis’s eyes slip shut, and he exhales a soft, shivering breath. His palm caresses Arthur’s jaw. “I want to make love to you again."

Arthur’s pulse quickens. "Now?" His voice comes out a little squeaky.

"No, I mean...when we're outta this city. I wanna do it right next time.”

“What makes you think you didn’t do it right before?”

“I mean…” There’s an awkward pause. “You said it hurt.”

“I told you, I didn’t mind.” Heat rises up his neck, into his face. He stands stiffly in front of Travis, his hands folded in front of him. “I like pain,” he mumbles. “Sometimes.” It still feels strange, admitting that. When he thinks about the way he spoke of it earlier—so dirty, so vulgar—he wants to cover his face and hide. But it was all true.

Travis’s voice lowers. “I wanna find out more about that, too. But first…I wanna do it proper. I want to get some of that stuff—you know. Lube. To make it easier. I wanna really take my time. I kinda lost my head, before. It felt so good. But I want to be gentle with you. You deserve that.”

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut. A lump fills his throat.

_Even now…_ even after everything he’s seen, after everything Arthur has done _…_

“Arthur?” There’s worry in his voice.

Arthur smiles. “I’m fine.” He touches the bandage on Travis’s forehead. “You’re not dizzy or anything? Or seeing double, or—”

“Nah. I got a thick skull.” He smiles. “What about you? You banged your head just as hard when you did that.”

“It doesn't hurt.” Maybe he's just used to it. He's spent a lot of time banging his head against walls.

Travis nods. “Let me grab a few things, and then we’ll head out. Drive west.”

“Why west?”

“Well, there’s not much east of here. We’re in New Jersey.”

“I guess that’s true.”

Outside, sirens blare. The muscles in his abdomen tighten, seizing up, as though someone is pulling a knotted cord tight around his gut.

He tells himself it doesn’t mean anything. Lately, Gotham has been full of sirens. But a nervous, caged-animal feeling creeps over him. He bites his lower lip. “Can we turn on the TV for a minute?”

“Sure. Why?”

“I just want to see what's going on right now.”

Travis flicks on the TV set. Arthur turns the channel to the news and sits down. 

"...curfew remains in effect as masked protests and riots continue to escalate. A confrontation outside of City Hall last night ended in a shootout, with two protestors and one officer dead, another officer wounded. The mayor has recommended that citizens stay in their homes and report any suspicious activity."

"Shit's getting crazier out there," Travis says.

"Will that make it harder to leave?"

"Might. The streets are probably crawling with cops."

Arthur rubs one hand over the other. 

"Maybe we should hunker down here for tonight,” Travis says. “Things might be a little calmer tomorrow."

In this apartment, they're safe. No one knows he's here. At least, he's pretty sure of that. He turns off the TV. "Travis?"

"Yeah?"

"Is there any chance someone could come looking for me? I mean..."

"You're asking if anyone knows about my connection to you."

He stares at the floor. "You said you talked to Gary."

"I didn't tell him my address. Or even my last name. Even if the police talk to him and he tells them about me, he can't lead them here."

Arthur nods uncertainly.

Travis rakes a hand through his hair and sighs. "You want something to eat? I got leftover pizza."

"Sure."

Travis wanders into the kitchen and brings back a pair of plastic plates, which he sets on the coffee table. Arthur nibbles a crust without much enthusiasm. His stomach is wadded up tightly, like a crinkled mass of foil. He stares blankly at the dark screen, feels his mind shutting down as a protective layer of numbness settles over him.

"You want me to put on some music? Or we could watch a movie or somethin'. Take our minds off things. Or just get some sleep."

"I'm not sure I could sleep. Could you?"

Travis's fingers slide into Arthur’s hair and rub his scalp in slow, gentle circles. "We could just lay there. I just wanna be close to you."

Arthur meets his gaze. He slides a little closer on the couch, rests his head against Travis's shoulder, and hugs his arm. His eyes slip shut. Travis keeps massaging his head as Arthur rubs his cheek, catlike, against Travis's jacket. It smells nice. Like him. He burrows a little closer, nuzzling against the curve of his neck. He tries not to think about Penny, or about Randall, or the chaos outside. If he allows himself to think, he’ll start to crumble.

If he could just stay here, in this moment...

Travis kisses his temple. "Come to bed with me."

Arthur's breathing quickens.

They’re just resting, he reminds himself. They're both a little too raw for anything else right now. He nods.

They retreat to the bedroom. "You're still wearing those wet clothes," Arthur remarks. "You should take them off."

Travis hesitates, then shucks off his wet shirt and jeans, stripping down to his boxers...then, after another pause, strips those off too. A flush rises into Arthur's cheeks. Travis kept his clothes mostly on even when they had sex. It's the first time Arthur's seen him fully naked. So many muscles. His abdomen is tight, well-defined. His shoulders somehow look broader, without the jacket. All that contained strength...

"I, um. I guess I should take my clothes off too."

"If you want." Travis's voice is soft, a little husky.

Arthur's fingers tremble a little as he unbuttons his shirt. He shrugs out of it, unbuttons his jeans, and takes off his briefs, depositing each item of clothing in a neat pile on the floor. He stands naked before Travis, hands folded in front of him, covering his privates, his gaze meekly on the floor. He's shaking, and not just from the chill in the air. He's not used to being naked in front of someone else.

Travis takes a few steps toward him and rests his hands on Arthur's shoulders. He rubs his arms, presses a soft kiss to his cheek. "You're shivering. Here...lay down. Let me cover you up. Get you warm."

Arthur obeys. Travis drapes the covers over him, then slides into bed beside him. Travis's knee brushes against his leg, and Arthur gulps. His quick, shallow breaths fill the silence. This shouldn’t be so awkward, he thinks. Not after everything they’ve been through together.

“I like your body,” Arthur murmurs.

“I try to stay in shape. Been slackin’ off lately, though. With the exercise. I’ve gotten a little soft.”

“I can’t tell. You look perfect to me.”

“Thanks.”

They gaze at each other in the dim light. Their faces are close, their bodies inches apart beneath the blankets.

Travis’s hand settles on the inward curve of his waist. “I like your body too,” he says. His thumb traces little circles on Arthur’s skin.

The contact is soft but curiously intense. Almost ticklish. A laugh bursts out before Arthur can stop it, and Travis freezes. He starts to pull his hand back, but Arthur says breathlessly, “It’s okay. I’m just…not used to it. Being touched. D-don’t…don’t stop.”

After a few seconds, his hand settles back into place, just above the sharp little jut of Arthur’s hipbone.

For a few minutes, they just lay there together, their mingled breathing filling the silence.

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met,” Travis says. “You know that?”

Arthur’s face grows warmer. “You don’t have to say that.”

“You don’t believe it?”

“I mean…look at me.”

“I’m lookin’.” Travis’s hand slides over his hipbone, over one thin hip. His thumb finds the ripple of an old cigarette burn and rubs it. “I can’t stop staring at your eyes. At those long, pretty lashes.”

Arthur lets out a soft, choked laugh and half-hides his face against the pillow. Suddenly, without warning, he’s close to tears. “Pretty?” he whispers.

Travis’s knuckles graze his cheek. “You like that word?”

“Um…I gu-guess so.”

“It’s so easy to make you blush. Like you’re not used to compliments. Just makes me wanna give you more.” He winds a lock of Arthur’s hair around one finger. “I like how your pretty lips quiver when you’re about to kiss me.”

There’s a spasm of fear—that Travis is making fun of him. He knows better, of course. Travis wouldn’t. But a part of him still insists that Travis can’t possibly mean it. Arthur touches his own lips, self-conscious. One blunt, nicotine-spotted fingertip compulsively strokes the groove in his upper lip.

“I like that too, you know. I don’t wanna make you self-conscious. But I could pay a lot of attention to that.”

It’s almost too much. The glow of the spotlight. He feels spread open. A part of him wants to pull the covers over his head, to hide from this focused, loving examination of his being.

“I like how you move…how you breathe. Your sweet voice. And your laugh. Your real one, I mean. I like your hands. Those thin wrists. And your mind…”

“My mind?” His voice emerges faint and husky.

“Yeah. You’ve got such a pretty mind, Arthur.”

Arthur wants to protest that his mind, if anything, is even less pretty than his body. Then Travis’s lips touch his neck, distracting him. A faint moan escapes his throat.

“I like those sounds you make, too.”

He feels Travis’s erection brush against his thigh. He starts to reach for it, but Travis’s fingers encircle his wrists like manacles, pushing them to the bed.

“I like how those pretty eyelashes of yours flutter when you’re surprised.”

Travis’s voice echoes in his memory, that hungry whispers: _I’m going to keep you_. A dark, sweet promise. He shivers. “Travis…”

His hand slides up to Arthur’s face, to cup his cheek, and lingers there. “You like this, don’t you?” he murmurs. “My hand on your cheek.”

“Y-yes.”

“Tell me how it makes you feel.”

Arthur swallows. It’s hard to find his voice. But words flit through his head. _Protected. Seen. Cherished._

It seems like a contradiction—that Travis has witnessed the violence he’s capable of, yet can still make him feel small and soft and helpless and pretty, the way Arthur has always secretly wanted to feel. He is a doll, cradled in those strong hands. He wants Travis to put makeup on him, to dress him up and play with him.

“Makes me feel like…I’m yours,” he whispers. “Like you’re mine.”

His forehead brushes against Arthur’s. His lips graze Arthur’s eyebrow, then drift to his temple. 

Their bodies are pressed together, hot skin against skin. They’re both aroused, and he thinks about the intimate shock of Travis inside him—the way his own body stretched, the dull burn and sharp sting and scrape mellowing into an ache, then a drugged, honeyed sweetness—the way his insides seemed to subtly shift, making room for a new presence.

Before that, he had been alone for so long, walled inside himself for so many years. The closest thing he ever experienced to intimacy was the Arkham guards restraining him, strong hands pinning him down when he thrashed. Making love for the first time—and in such a rough, almost violent way—should have been too much for him. Maybe it was.

But they’ve broken through so many barriers together already. Travis has seen him kill. They’ve both felt each other’s hands around their throats. Sex is primal, but death is more primal still.

Travis’s hand slips lower, glides over his ass, down to the back of his hip.

He thinks, idly, that he wouldn’t mind if Travis put a finger inside him right now. Or more. He would let it happen. He would remain limp, doll-like and fuzzy-headed with sleepiness, utterly pliant as Travis worshipped and claimed his body.

The edge of a finger grazes his balls. They tighten a little, then swell, pulsing lightly. _It’s happening,_ he thinks dreamily.

Then Travis’s hand retreats, and his arm curls around Arthur’s waist.

Arthur pushes up against him. Insistent.

That warm hand slides down again. One finger works its way into him. Arthur groans. His hole is still sore, still raw from last time. He relishes the pain. Travis pushes deeper as his other hand drifts down and closes around Arthur’s cock. Arthur reaches down to touch him, as well, fingertips grazing the hot, hard flesh.

“I’m just gonna touch you,” Travis murmurs into his ear. “Just like this.”

Arthur nods, breathless.

For a while, he loses himself in sensation. In the slow, languid movements beneath the covers. He’s never stroked another man off before, but he’s done it to himself plenty of times; he knows the motions. Travis’s breathing shudders softly in his ear, his hand moving up and down Arthur’s length as he works another finger inside him. “Here?” he whispers. He pushes a spot, and there’s a sharp throb of pleasure inside Arthur’s balls, behind the base of his cock.

He whines, low and hungry.

“Yeah. There it is. You want more?”

“Yes please.” The words escape Arthur in a whispery little rush.

Travis keeps teasing that spot, toying with it. Arthur buries his flushed, sweating face against Travis’s shoulder and pants, stroking harder, faster. Their movements quicken in tandem, until they reach a feverish, urgent pitch. Travis cums first; his body stiffens, every muscle tightening and going rigid as he lets out a short, harsh cry, and there’s a splash of sticky warmth onto Arthur’s hip. Travis goes limp, panting and bathed in sweat. Then, slowly, his hands resume their movements. His lips touch Arthur’s ear, and he starts to whisper.

Arthur can’t make out the words. The part of his mind that understands language seems to have fizzled out. He is reduced to his body. He lays still, hands clenched on the sweat-damp sheets, mouth open, eyes wide and unseeing in the darkness, Travis’s husky voice humming deep in his ear. He feels a coiling, tightening sensation, a pressure building deep down, swelling and stretching. He strains, muscles locking tight, and there, there, _there…_

A high, tremulous wail bursts from his throat, and his hips jerk. “Travis— _Travis, Travis! Ah!”_ He arches off the bed, then flops back down, gasping.

When his vision clears, Travis is smiling. “You’re noisy,” he says.

Arthur opens his mouth to apologize, automatically, and Travis silences him with a kiss. Carefully, he extracts his fingers from Arthur's body. "Let me get you a towel," he says.

Arthur watches, pleasantly dazed, as Travis retrieves a towel from the bathroom and begins carefully wiping off Arthur's thighs and stomach. "That was nice," he whispers. More than nice. But that's the only word his fuzzy brain will produce at the moment.

"Yeah," Travis says. "It was."

His gaze wanders to Travis's spent cock. It hangs down, a bit of smeared cum still gleaming on the tip. He wanted to feel it inside him again. But there'll be other chances.

_Will there?_ a voice inside whispers. He tries to ignore it.

"Travis?" he whispers.

"Yeah?"

"You're wonderful."

It's hard to tell, in the darkness, but he thinks Travis actually blushes a little. A tiny smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. "You too."

He doesn't know what the future holds. But no matter what happens, they'll be together. He feels certain of that much, at least. 

* * *

He doesn’t expect to fall asleep. But once they're clean, a warm, hazy glow descends on him, wrapping him up. He drifts off, cradled in Travis’s arms.

He wakes briefly once, from dark and confused dreams, with Travis hushing him and stroking his hair, murmuring, “It’s all right, Arthur. You’re safe. I’m right here.”

He drifts off again within moments.

When he finally wakes, it’s dark outside the window, and Travis is no longer in bed. “Travis?”

The TV is on in the other room.

Arthur rubs at his eyes, slides out of bed and throws on one of Travis’s shirts hanging in the nearby closet. He slips on a pair of his boxers, too, and walks into the living room to find Travis on the couch, wearing only a pair of jeans. His gaze is fixed on the TV.

“How long have you been up?”

Travis doesn’t answer. His jaw is set in a grim line. There’s a newswoman talking on TV.

"...a grisly murder. The man was stabbed multiple times with a pair of scissors..."

Arthur turns. A bleary picture of Randall stares out of the TV, beneath the words BREAKING NEWS.

Arthur's stomach sinks.

“When police arrived to investigate the apartment earlier this evening, they found the body of Randall Hoffman in the bathtub—”

A dull static fills Arthur’s head.

Sophie must have called the police, he thinks, after seeing his confrontation with Travis in the lobby. Or maybe someone noticed the smell. 

The TV drones on: “The suspect, last seen early this morning in the lobby of the building, is also a person of interest in the investigation of the recent subway murders which involved a so-called ‘killer clown’—a forty-one-year-old man named Arthur Fleck. Until recently, Arthur worked at an agency called Ha-Ha’s and is believed to have possessed a firearm illegally sold to him by a coworker. Neighbors describe him as 'quiet' and 'odd.' Arthur Fleck is considered armed and dangerous. Anyone who sees him is advised to call this number—”

Dizziness swims over him. Nausea grips his stomach. He sways a little, pressing a hand to his abdomen.

His own face stares back at him from the screen. He doesn’t know where they got the picture. He can’t remember when it was taken. In Arkham? He’s wearing a white shirt and standing against a white wall, his expression blank and slack, his hair tangled and greasy, dark circles under his eyes. One eyelid droops a little. His lips are twisted in a sneer, exposing one jagged tooth.

He wonders if they deliberately chose the most unflattering photo they could, or if they just grabbed whatever was available. He _looks_ crazy. Looks dangerous, damaged, unhinged. A bit pathetic, but not someone you’d want to run into in a dark alley. Is this how the rest of the world sees him?

Is that how he really is?

A hand settles on his shoulder.

“I thought we’d have more time,” Arthur mutters.

"If we leave now, it’ll be fine,” Travis says. He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. “I’ve got some cash in a sock in my bottom drawer. Enough to hold us for a little while. We can drive through the night, get out of the state, then find a motel somewhere. Or just take turns sleeping in the cab.”

Arthur wonders if the curfew is still in effect. Either way, there’s been so much unrest. The city will probably be swarming with police.

Arthur thinks, again, about begging Travis to leave him and save himself. But they’ve already been down that road. Travis is not going anywhere.

“Arthur.” Travis squeezes his shoulder. “Hey.”

He gives a start, takes a deep breath, and runs a hand through his hair. Not long ago, he was cocooned securely in Travis’s arms, feeling safe and content, feeling like nothing could touch them, and now…

“I’m ready.”

He’s leaving behind his home, his city. Everything he’s ever known. He doesn’t feel ready. But they don’t have much choice.

* * *

Snow drifts softly down from the sky, melting when it hits the cab’s windshield. They stop at a red light. Arthur sits stiffly, heart hammering. He’s wearing a heavy jacket with the hood pulled up, his shoulders scrunched down.

His face is on the news now. If they’re stopped for any reason…if anyone sees him…

He steals a glance out the window. People walk past, hunched over. None of them are paying attention. They’re all caught up in their own worlds, their own struggles. They have no reason to look at him. He starts to relax, just a little.

Arthur is accustomed to being invisible. Now, it’s his shield.

He watches the snow drift down, watches each flake vanish, disappearing into a smear of water reflecting the glow of a stoplight. Penny always said that snowflakes were like people, every one unique and special. Up close, they look like beautiful little sculptures.

They have such short lives, snowflakes. And because they’re so small, no one can even see their pretty and unique patterns, unless they take the time to look at them under a microscope. It seems like a waste—all that beauty, melting away as soon as it touches the ground.

They stop at another light. A woman points at the cab and says something to the man next to her. Arthur’s pulse speeds up. _Relax. She’s probably just asking him if he wants to take a taxi._

The light changes. They drive on.

“We’re comin’ up on the Gotham Bridge,” Travis says. “Just a mile or two ahead.”

The bridge leads out of the city. It’s one of the major exit points. Traffic is always atrocious, but because Arthur’s never had a car, he’s never had to deal with it.

“Once we get outta Gotham we’ll be safe,” Travis says. “Well. Safer.”

Arthur nods. He clutches his jacket tighter around him.

The snow comes thicker and faster now, settling over awnings and streetlights and blanketing the sidewalks. It muffles sounds, envelopes the world in a wintery cocoon.

Arthur's gaze wanders to the rearview mirror. A pair of headlights shine in the reflection, half-blinding him. He squints. “Travis?” he whispers.

“Yeah?”

“Is that car following us?"

Travis glances into the rearview mirror. “I wasn’t gonna mention it. Didn’t wanna freak you out. Could be a coincidence. I could try to lose ‘em, but that’d just look more suspicious.”

“Just keep driving.”

Travis nods, hands locked tight around the wheel. “Once we’re out of the state, we should stop somewhere and buy a new gun. Just in case. Good to have protection, you know?”

“Yeah.”

A pair of teenagers in clown masks run through the streets, whooping. One of them wields a baseball bat. He smashes in a window. A deep, angry voice shouts. Someone has spray-painted the words LET IT ALL BURN onto a brick wall. Another splash of graffiti: WE ARE ALL CLOWNS. He sees what he’s pretty sure is a dead, beheaded cat hanging in a window, next to a handmade sign reading, FAT CATS DIE.

He feels sick.

Ahead, a clown-masked woman stands on a wooden box shouting into a megaphone to a small, assembled crowd: “We are through with eating their scraps! Asking for change doesn’t work! We’ve been screaming our whole lives and they can’t hear us! In this world, you only get what you take! And if we have to pry it out of their dead hands, then you better believe we _will!"_

A police car pulls up. Two men get out. The crowd turns toward them; one person shoves another. Voices shout, rising. More shoving. A gun goes off, and someone screams.

They turn a corner.

“Travis,” he whispers.

“Yeah?”

“I really want to get out of this city.”

“Me too. We will. Soon.”

If they make it past the bridge, he thinks...if they can just make it past the bridge…

He knows it’s superstitious, believing that that will make any sort of difference. There's no reason they can’t be pursued outside city limits. Still, he has the feeling that if they just get out of Gotham—out of this cramped dingy snow globe, this bubble—everything will be different. They will break through some invisible force-field, some watery translucent membrane, into a wider universe. They will be born.

But what then?

He focuses on breathing. In. Out. In.

He thinks about the woman who pointed at them, at the stoplight. He wonders if she got a glimpse of his face, if she recognized it from the TV. Did they see the taxi’s license plate? His breathing speeds up.

_Stop it. No one saw you._

“Almost there,” Travis murmurs.

“Sorry. I’m hyperventilating, I know. It’s...probably distracting.”

“It’s fine. You want me to—turn on the radio or somethin’?”

Arthur shakes his head. He’s pretty sure additional noise would just make him more nervous. Even music, right now, won’t soothe his restless soul. His gaze strays toward Travis’s hands, locked around the wheel. He wishes he could hold one of them.

Just a little farther.

Behind them, Arthur hears sirens. He looks into the rearview mirror and sees red and blue flashing lights.

Oh no.

“Shit,” Travis mutters.

“What do we do?” Arthur asks, breathless.

“We keep driving.” He slams on the gas. The taxi blasts forward. The police cars pursue them. They Gotham Bridge looms ahead.

But the bridge is blocked. A line of cars are parked across it, lights flashing. A man stands out in front of them, waving his arms and pointing, redirecting traffic.

Arthur’s stomach sinks. _No, no, no._

Travis yanks the wheel. The taxi veers down a side-street. “All right,” he mutters. “We’ll take another exit. More than one way out of the city.”

The sirens wail behind them. Travis turns down another street, then another. He takes a one-way street past rows of brick apartment buildings and empty lots. And they find themselves facing a blank wall. A dead end.

The sirens keep howling, coming closer. Arthur looks over one shoulder and sees a police car blocking the other end of the street. There is nowhere to go. They can't even back out.

“We’re gonna have to ditch the cab,” Travis says. "Make a run for it on foot. Find somewhere to hide."

Arthur's gone numb. This is all falling apart. Maybe there was never a possibility of escape. Gotham is the world, and the world is Gotham. The exits have always been blocked.

Travis gets out and circles around. Feeling like he's floating, Arthur takes Travis’s hand, and Travis pulls him to his feet. They begin to run, leaving footprints in the snow. They duck down an alley, squeeze between two buildings and dash down another narrow one way street. They are lost in a maze, blundering in circles. The world is shrinking; the brick walls seem to constrict around them, pressing down. They are animals in a trap.

“Stop and put your hands up!” a man’s voice shouts behind them.

Arthur turns. A young police officer, face flushed with cold, stands in the snow, a pistol gripped in both hands, pointed at them.

_“Hands up! Both of you!”_

Arthur’s throat clamps shut. 

“Arthur—”

A sense of calm falls over him. He pulls his hand free from Travis’s.

"Wait," Travis says.

He will surrender himself. He will turn himself in, like he planned, and confess everything. Maybe, deep down, he knew it would come to this. 

It’s all right, he thinks. Travis will be safe. Arthur will tell the police that he forced Travis to come with him, that he held him at knife-point. As long as Travis is safe, nothing else matters. A smile stretches across his face.

_“Hands in the air where I can see ‘em!”_ The man’s teeth are bared, his eyes wide, panic gleaming around the white edges. _“This is your last warning!”_

Slowly, he begins to raise his hands. A whine escapes him, low and thin. It builds, louder and louder, until a laugh bursts out of his chest. He stands there, both hands in the air, laughing wildly and shrilly. The man's face twists in confusion and fear.

"Stop laughing, you freak!"

“I... _ha-ha-ha-ha!_ I have a condition!"

"I said stop!"

_"Ha-ha-ha-ha!_ I s-suh-s-sur—”

_Bang._

Arthur’s body jerks. Suddenly, it’s hard to draw a full breath. There’s a tremendous pressure, like a piano sitting on his chest. But he doesn’t fully realize what’s happened—not until he looks down and sees the blood spreading in a patch across the front of his jacket.

* * *

Travis hears the shot. For a few seconds, everything goes still. Even the snow seems to freeze in place, countless flakes suspended in midair. There is no sound.

Then the world unfreezes, and Arthur’s legs crumple beneath him. He hits the pavement, eyes wide and stunned.

The cop stares, mouth open, the gun motionless in his hands. He looks dazed, almost baffled, as though he’s trying to figure out why there’s a man lying on the pavement with a bullet-hole in his chest.

Travis turns slowly toward the man, the blood drumming in his head. His cold gaze drills into the cop's eyes. The cop takes a step back, face paling.

Then Travis scoops up Arthur and makes a run for it.

He doesn’t know where he’s going. He is a cornered animal, running blind. His feet pound the snowy pavement.

Arthur doesn’t cry out. Doesn’t make a peep. He’s breathing, but it sounds—wrong. Raspy, rattling gasps. Blood flecks his lips. This is bad. 

He has no choice. They have to stop and let themselves be caught. The cops will take Arthur to a hospital. He can still be saved. He'll be a prisoner, but he'll be alive. They can worry about the rest later. Travis slows to a jog.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Travis mutters. “It’s gonna—”

Travis feels the impact when the bullet hits him, but there’s no pain. Just a warm spread of blood soaking through the back of his shirt. He stumbles.

In a flash of clarity, he realizes that there won't be any hospital. Not for either one of them. Travis just witnessed a cop gun down an unarmed man who was about to turn himself in. The guy panicked, did something dumb, but it could become a problem for him. Better, easier for that man, if they are both silenced. If they can't tell their side of the story.

He breaks into a run again, Arthur cradled in his arms. Another bullet grazes his shoulder as he veers down a narrow side street and into an alley. A rat scuttles away, vanishing behind a dumpster.

The world blurs and shimmers, golden fireflies dancing along the edges of his eyes.

_Bang._

He stumbles. Falls. Arthur tumbles out of his arms. He doesn’t even cry out.

Travis props himself up off the wet, dirty pavement, on his hands. His legs won’t move for some reason. He drags himself forward, cuts his palm on a piece of broken glass from a shattered beer bottle, but he barely notices. Panting, he crawls toward Arthur, who lays curled on his side, semi-fetal, his shirt and jacket soaked with blood, his eyes half-open.

Voices shout, echoing in the distance. Sirens blare, a ceaseless, meaningless, lunatic pulse of sound.

“Hey,” Travis whispers hoarsely. It’s hard to speak. It takes more concentration than it should. “They got me too. Just a flesh wound, but I…dunno if I can carry you anymore. Can you…move?” Silence. “Arthur?” 

Arthur’s lips move silently for a few seconds. He seems to be straining to speak. “I can’t,” he whispers in a thin, raspy voice. He draws in another labored, rattling breath. It seems to hurt him.

“It’s okay. J-just hang on—let me—”

“It’s okay.” He smiles, eyes wet, lips flecked with blood. He reaches up with one trembling hand to touch Travis’s cheek. “You…” he coughs.

“Shh.” Travis strokes his hair. “Don’t try to talk.” He presses a hand over the hole in Arthur’s jacket, trying to staunch the flow of blood. But that’s not the real problem. There’s a bullet lodged inside him. In his lung, or maybe his heart.

This can’t be it, he thinks. This can’t be how it ends, here in this garbage-filled alley, with a single streetlight glowing at the end, illuminating the snowflakes swirling around it.

No. No, he won’t let it end here.

“Hang on. I’m gonna…” He tries to scoop Arthur up, then slumps back to the pavement, the breath wheezing in his throat. Blood drips to the snow. It seems to be everywhere. On his hands, his clothes. He wills his legs to move. Nothing.

He’s been wounded before, more than once, but he doesn’t remember this paralyzing sense of numbness, this…cold. His legs don’t even twitch. “Arthur,” he says, unable to keep the fear from his voice. “I can’t feel my legs.”

Arthur’s half-open eyes stare hazily at him. He’s struggling to breathe. Each inhalation rattles in his chest. “This is it,” he whispers. “Isn’t it?”

“No. No, we’re gonna get through this. Hang on.”

He’s scared. He’s never been this scared. Not in the war, not when he faced down the pimps in New York. He can’t lose Arthur, not now.

Arthur clasps his hand. He smiles, pain glazing his eyes. “It’s okay." He squeezes Travis's hand tight. "I’m here.”

The voices are coming closer. Footsteps echo through the silence.

“I love you, Travis.” His voice is faint, now. Barely audible. “I’m sorry. F-for…”

Travis squeezes his hand tighter. “Shh.” He leans in and kisses Arthur in desperation. “Everything’s gonna be okay,” he says, voice breaking. “You’re gonna be okay. They’re gonna patch you up. You just keep your eyes open, okay? Keep lookin’ at me. Don’t fall asleep.” He cradles Arthur’s face with his free hand, strokes his cheek with his thumb. “Stay with me.”

Arthur smiles again, weakly. His lips move, but Travis can’t hear his voice anymore. His eyelids droop. He’s fading.

“No. No, Arthur, hold on. Do you hear me? Hold on.”

His breathing is growing raspier. Fainter.

And then it stops.

“Arthur?”

Arthur’s half-closed eyes stare at nothing.

Everything inside Travis goes still. All at once, the world turns cold and empty.

He could cry, beg and plead. He could shake Arthur’s limp form, give him mouth to mouth, pump his chest with the heel of one hand, do all those things that people do in movies. But he knows none of that will make a difference now. He knows gone when he sees it.

Travis lets out a hoarse, choked sob; a broken sound. He leans in and rests his forehead against Arthur’s. “I’ll follow you,” he whispers, stroking his tangled, wavy hair, smoothing it away from his face. “Wherever you go. Whatever comes next. You won’t be alone. I promise.” He wraps an arm around the lifeless body, pulling it close. It’s still warm. “It’s okay, Arthur,” he whispers into one ear. “I’m here.”

He lays there, his legs a mass of dead weight. Every breath brings a flare of pain. Something is ruptured inside him. A mass of black insects skitters across his vision, eating away at the edges. It’s all he can do to stay conscious. But he holds onto Arthur, like a child clinging to a stuffed toy in the darkness.

Boots pound the pavements. Hands grab his arms, yank them behind his back as the police slap cuffs on him.

He’s paralyzed, bleeding out on the street, and they’re cuffing him. He’s too weak to resist, or even to protest.

_Just let me hold him a little longer, you animals. Just another minute._

“Stand up,” one of them says, pointing a pistol at his head.

It's dark in the alley. Maybe they don't see the blood. “Can’t,” Travis mutters. “Legs don’t work.” He’s not even angry, now. Just tired. He wants to sleep. _Leave me alone, damn it._

The man hesitates, then says into a walky-talky, “Call an ambulance.”

"Uh. Hey, Burke," another voice says. "I think the other one's already..."

A pause. "Shit," he mutters. 

Voices talking, warbling, fuzzy and distorted.

The world’s getting grayer. Sounds are muffled. With every passing second, it’s more and more of a strain to breathe. He lays there on his stomach, hands cuffed behind his back, staring at Arthur’s motionless face, his empty green eyes. A few strands of hair lie across his cheek.

Beautiful. Even in death. But it’s like looking at a wax sculpture of him. It’s not _Arthur_ anymore. Just the shell he left behind—like those transparent casings that cicadas leave clinging to tree trunks, ghostly glass insect sculptures. Perfect little legs and eyes, but nothing inside. Arthur’s shed his casing and flown away to a place where Travis can’t reach him.

But he’ll find him again. Soon now.

_Wait for me._

He’s died before. He feels like he has, anyway. But this time, he thinks, he’s not coming back.

As the voices and light fade out, he remembers that moment on the Ferris wheel, the ground dropping out beneath them, the way Arthur held him when he started to panic. He remembers the heat of Arthur’s body clenched tight around him, his gasps of pleasure. His smile. That soft little kiss on his cheek. His voice saying, _I don’t want you to hate yourself.  
_

It was real, Travis thinks. Arthur was real. For just a brief, brilliant moment in his cold, dark, empty life of misunderstandings and regrets and loneliness, he held someone’s hand.

Maybe this is the best fate that men like them can expect, in a world like this. To die together, before the world can tear them apart.

Snow falls softly onto Arthur’s hair, onto his bloodstained jacket. Travis tries to keep his eyes open. He doesn’t look away. He wants Arthur’s face to be the last thing he sees, the vision he carries with him to the next world.

And then Travis is sinking through darkness. The light recedes to a faint glimmer, then disappears.

This is it. He’s at the door. There's no bright light, no angels singing, but no screams or hellfire, either. He can't feel anything except a beckoning darkness, a warm nothing. It's seductive, that nothing. It promises what seemed, until that moment, impossible: an end to pain, an end to the stupid mass of contradictions which is Travis Bickle, an end to feeling _not enough_ , an end to hurting others with his mistakes, an end to the loneliness and confusion of being a person. He's found the exit to the maze of his own brain. Beyond lies the ultimate safety, the womb at the beginning and end of time, the primal, natural state to which all things must return. No more ache.

No Arthur, either.

Beneath the numb acceptance, there is a tiny, distant flash of panic, of defiance.

No...no, this can't be all. 

_Please, God, or Whoever. If you can hear me, I’m begging you, don’t let this be the end. Give me one more chance. Just one more. For him. Let me—_

* * *

The snow falls in a soft blanket, covering the two bodies in the alley. By the time the ambulance arrives, there is no one there to save.

* * *

“Hey—hey, buddy. _Hey!_ You can’t park here!” A car horn blasts.

Travis looks over one shoulder. The man in the puke-colored sedan behind him lays on the horn again. Muttering to himself, Travis pulls out of the spot next to the hydrant.

He shakes his head a little, disoriented. What was he just doing? Spacing out, he guesses. Daydreaming on the job again. Bad habits.

He stops at a red light, takes a sip of his cheap gas station coffee and grimaces. It’s a cool mid-October day. A layer of smog blankets the city, but a few rays of sunlight break through. The light changes and he keeps driving, scanning the streets, looking for someone with a hand in the air.

He’s been living in Gotham for a while now. He's started to get the hang of navigating its garbage-choked streets. But finding a place to park, even for a few minutes, is never easy. In cities, you have to keep moving.

He thought this would be a new start. But it feels a whole lot like New York—a dirtier, seedier version, which he wouldn’t have thought possible, but there you go. Different street names, different buildings, same old grind. Same old emptiness. A bearded man in ragged clothes storms down the sidewalk, ranting and waving his arms, lost in his own private hell. Passers-by give him a wide berth.

On the radio, a voice drones on about the garbage strike, which shows no sign of ending, and as usual, no one wants to take responsibility for cleaning up the mess. Fucking unions, fucking mayor, fucking useless politicians sitting around on their useless, rich asses—

He halts the train of thought before it can go any farther. He recognizes the bitterness eating away at him like stomach acid, burning an ulcer into his soul. He’s resolved to stop thinking that way. But it’s hard. His gaze lingers on a couple walking hand in hand down the sidewalk, smiling into each other’s eyes. People in love always look so happy. But he’s done with all that, too. Everything with Betsy just proved his deepest fears—that he’s unfit for love. The rot has already gotten too deep inside him. No sense in wanting what he can’t have.

Travis drives past an alley, and a shiver runs up his spine. He has the sense that he’s been here before, that this place is...significant, somehow. He slows, backs up a little.

A group of teenagers run, laughing, out of the shadows. They scatter and disappear. Travis throws the cab into park, rolls down his window, and leans out.

There’s someone in there. Laying on the pavement, curled up. A guy in clown makeup and a fuzzy green wig. Looks like he’s hurt.

Travis’s body moves automatically. He gets out of the cab and takes a few steps forward, then stops. The man doesn’t seem to notice him. He’s breathing in a shuddering, pained little gasps, cheeks vibrating with the force of each exhalation. His hands are tucked between his legs, covering his privates.

It’s obvious that he’s just been beaten up. Probably not the first time, either. The way he’s curled in on himself, covering his most sensitive area…yeah, he’s had some experience getting the shit kicked out of him.

There’s a little twinge in Travis’s chest—a tug, almost. A sense of being pulled.

The man sits up slowly, his movements stiff and painful. He pulls off his wig and clown nose and lights a cigarette from his pocket. He is, by far, the most depressed-looking clown Travis has ever seen.

_Have I seen him before?_ There’s something about his face…

Even under the makeup, he can see the deep lines carved into his brow, his cheeks. His brown hair hangs in loose, messy curls over his forehead. The sense of familiarity fades. No, they’ve never met. If they had, there’s no way Travis would’ve forgotten.

Pieces of a broken sign lay scattered around the man. Those teenagers, Travis thinks. It must’ve been them. Some sick idea of a joke, beating up a clown and wrecking his sign—harassing some poor bastard who’s just trying to do his job.

For a moment, he wonders if he should just mind his own business and keep walking. Maybe this man doesn’t want anyone to witness his pain, to see him in this vulnerable state.

He thinks of the line he wrote in his journal, months ago: _I will live out the rest of my life quietly with the will to be the sort of person who pays his rent on time, who is kind to animals and children, who stops to pick up an empty beer can on the street, and who never tells an untruth. I will have no goals beyond that._

Simple acts of kindness. Those, he decided, are worth more than grand acts of heroism. A hero is just a villain seen from a different angle—and vice versa, maybe. Heroes and villains get all the headlines, but he’s seen how empty it all is. He came here to live another kind of life. Maybe Gotham is no different than New York, but Travis can be different, here. At least, he can give it his best shot.

The least he can do is offer a hand up.

“Hey,” Travis says. “You okay, pal?”


End file.
